


It's a Beautiful Kind of Pain

by starclipped



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Past Torture, Mentions of drugs, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Deaths, Skinny!Steve, Stucky - Freeform, Thug!Bucky, mafia, mentions of depression, mentions of past drug addiction, mentions of torture, mild violence, romanov bratva vs hydra, street gangs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes is a member of the Romanov Bratva. Steve Rogers is the moralistic son of a cop. They shouldn't get involved with each other, but sometimes you just can't help who you fall for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  "I feel the burn, watch the smoke as I turn, rising  
> the phoenix from the flames  
> I have learned from fighting fights that weren't mine  
> not with fists, but with wings, that I will fly  
> I'm standing in the flames  
> and it's a beautiful kind of pain  
> setting fire to yesterday  
> find a light, find a light, find a light"  
> 

**[June]**

The gash on his abdomen is new and not very deep, but it stings worse than anything he’s felt in a while.

Bucky sucks in air quickly, a hiss seeping through his clenched teeth. He scrambles across the dirty concrete and reaches blindly for the crowbar he’d dropped when the blade of the rival tore his shirt and sliced up his skin. The man is still advancing on him, crouched down with the knife held up high, looking like a hunter ready to jump in on the kill. But Bucky Barnes is no fucking baby deer and he won’t be killed tonight.

When the fingers of his left hand curl around the cool, rough edges of the old crowbar, Bucky acts fast. He moves his arm into a predictable swing, simultaneously jerking to remove his bloody right hand from the wound on his stomach to reach for the knife tucked away in his boot. The crowbar gets blocked but the knife doesn’t and the scream that pulls through the man’s throat as Bucky forces his own blade deep into the rival’s thigh is the cue for him to bolt.

He hops up onto his feet and swings the crowbar down to connect with the rival’s jaw, sending him sprawling backwards, raised knife clattering to the floor. And then Bucky’s high tailing it out of the old warehouse, shouting for Dum Dum and Rumlow to retreat before any more Hydra thugs can get to him.

They’ve been hot on his ass for weeks now, coming out of alleyways with high hopes that they’ll be able to jump him. No one’s been successful but if it keeps up at this pace, someone might actually do him some damage.

“How the fuck did they know we were here anyway?” he demands once Dum Dum pulls them away from the side street so they can slip into traffic. “It was s’posed to be the Chechens, not that Hydra bullshit!”

Dum Dum shakes his head frantically, meeting Bucky’s eye in the rearview. “I told you not to break that mirror, Bucky. At Barton’s party, remember? Our luck’s gone down the shitter ever since.”

Bucky glares and flicks Dum Dum’s bowler hat right off his head, sending it flying into Rumlow’s lap.

“Superstition? _Really?_ It’s not because I broke a fucking mirror, it’s because we’ve got a rat somewhere.”

Rumlow turns just enough to show Bucky his questioning brow. “That’s a big thing to say, but I’m thinkin’ the same. Can you back it up enough to tell the Boss?”

Bucky twists his mouth into a scowl and plops farther back into his seat, adding more pressure to his wound.

“No,” he grumbles. “Not yet, but there’s gotta be something.”

“Well, you better find it fast,” Dum Dum encourages while he steers them towards Bryant Avenue. “You might not have much time.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky tells him, but it’s weak and resigned because he knows Dum Dum’s talking sense.

When they come to a halt in front of Russo’s Clinic near the Romanov complex, Bucky takes out his phone with the unbloodied hand and slides through his contacts until he reaches the one he’s looking for.

“Is Joe in?” he questions as soon as someone picks up. “Or is it that asshole Sitwell?”

“Joe’s in the back,” the receptionist confirms. “Is this an emergency?”

Bucky shrugs, though she obviously can’t see him, and pulls his hand away to stare at the bleeding gash.

“Could be.”

He slides out of the car slowly when she tells him to hurry in and slouches on the way to the door, careful not to stand up tall or else he might cause himself more pain.

He never makes it to the entrance. The fact that sirens start blaring before he can even reach for the dull silver handle just seems to prove Dum Dum’s stupid theory about bad luck.

And to add insult to his literal and figurative injury, it’s Joseph Rogers that arrests him.

Bucky grunts as he’s pushed none-too-gently against the police car, hands getting cuffed tightly behind his back. “Coming all the way out from Queens just to see me?” he asks with an _awe-shucks_ tone. “I know it’s been a while, but you shouldn’t have. _Seriously_. I didn’t hear any sirens.”

“We didn’t wanna scare you away now, did we?” Sergeant Rogers asks with a grin. “Get in. You’re getting blood all over the car.”

/\/\/\/\/\

Steve hates being an errand boy, he really does, but he hates disappointing his mother even more. She’d called him on her break to specifically ask him to take some lunch to his diabetic father and he just couldn’t say no. He hadn’t been busy anyway.

It takes close to a half an hour for Steve’s blue pickup to get from Brooklyn to Queens and then another ten minutes to grab 3 meals from the closest sandwich shop.  When he reaches the 107th precinct Flushing Police Department, it’s with a bag of food in one hand and a joke book in the other. He’d been skimming through it back at his apartment and taking it to the station with the hopes of either irritating Phillips or making him laugh was too important to pass up.

He smiles at several of the people inside, even the one’s he doesn’t know. Many of them greet him by name and pause to ask him how things are going. “Fine,” he tells them, following up with a question of where his dad’s at since he’s clearly not in sight like Phillips is.

“Complaining about some thugs being bailed out before processing,” Officer Allan bemoans. “He’s damned pissed.”

Steve isn’t one bit surprised. He’s also pretty sure Pierce had a hand in the described situation.

He offers a small smile and a thank you before making his way towards Phillips, plopping the food bag onto the desk he’s sat at. Phillips doesn’t even look up.

“Busy morning?” Steve asks somewhat conversationally. Phillips makes some sort of sound of affirmation. Steve gives a quick glance to his right, observing the wall of chairs and the two people sitting at either end. One’s reading a magazine and the other’s resting a hand against his stomach. He faces Phillips once more. “Busy, but not productive.”

Phillips tries hard to remain impassive, but Steve’s had enough practice staring at his father’s closest friend to know he’s secretly stewing.

“They call themselves the Romanov Bratva,” Phillips says. The words sound strange with his southern twang. “Been around for a long time, but the fresh blood’s been acting up. Caught three members and they’re already halfway out the door.”

Steve nods, silently expressing his sympathies. He’s heard his dad rant about the Romanov Bratva for years and their moral compasses are similar enough for him to understand just how much something like seeing these offenders walk again would make his father’s blood boil.

Steve’s not the greatest at diffusing situations, is better at adding fuel to the fire most days, but his joke book is itching to make someone feel better. At the very least, Phillips might give him a disappointed head shake which Steve’s learned to identify as a maybe-smile.

So, clearing his throat and forgoing his dignity, Steve pulls up the joke book and reads the first thing his eyes land on. “What do you call a bear with no teeth?” He waits for Phillips to make eye-contact. “A gummy bear.”

Phillips fixes him with a blank stare.

Steve consults the book once more. “What did the psychiatrist say when a man wearing nothing but saran wrap walked into his office? I can clearly see you’re nuts!”

He gets nothing other an eye twitch from Phillips, but a snorted laugh resonates from behind him. Steve turns to catch sight of the guy with a hand pressed to his stomach, looking away pointedly as he licks his lips. Steve’s mouth quirks up at the corner and he’s unable to hide his amused expression, especially when the man’s gaze actually settles on him.

Steve quickly finds another joke on the page and then looks back up to recite it so he can catch the man’s reaction.

“What do you get when you cross a tyrannosaurus rex with fireworks? _Dino_ -mite.”

The man with the magazine laughs this time while the guy holding Steve’s attention pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and shakes his head.

“That’s _stupid_.”

Steve hums, not really disagreeing, and steals another from the page. “What did the mother buffalo say when her boy left for college?”

Steve waits before answering, allowing the stranger a chance to guess. He notices the way the guy’s eyes narrow in thought, the way his chin scrunches when his lip juts out.

“Buffalo?” he questions, just to make sure, and Steve thinks he sounds way too curious about the answer to a simple joke. It’s a little charming, honestly. And what’s even more charming is the way the guy’s eyes widen as he points to Steve. “Bye-son. Right?”

Steve lets the book rest against his hip as he accuses, “You’ve heard it before.”

The guy looks a little smug. “C’mon, kid. That one was easy.”

Steve’s jaw clenches at being called a _kid_ by a guy that can’t be too much older than he is, but he’s not very bothered. So he makes to reply, ready with another stupid joke that he’s pretty positive won’t be guessed correctly, only to be interrupted by the very stern voice of his father.

“Romanov,” Joseph barks. He looks positively disdainful. “You and your low-life buddies are unjustly free to go.”

Steve blinks, a little surprised to find out he’d been cracking jokes with a member of the Romanov Bratva.

The guy stands, his open expression now closed-off and cold. The other man who’d been reading a magazine gets up as well. Steve watches as two people, a man with dark scruff and a woman with fiery hair, go to join them.

“Next time you’re here, I don’t want you talking to my son. I don’t want you even looking at my son. You got that?” Joseph demands.

Steve feels heat spread through his body, a mixture of anger and embarrassment fighting for the win. He rounds on his father immediately, radiating petulance.

“Quit it,” he demands, just like he’s done nearly all his life. _I’m a grown man,_ he wants to say, but he feels as if that’s a little too much to argue in public.

“Zima,” the woman calls, or at least that’s what Steve hears. He doesn’t know if that’s the guy’s name or something else, but it clearly gets him moving. He turns on his heel without even a second glance at Steve or Joseph and follows the woman out the door, the other two men trailing quick and quietly behind.

Steve’s good mood seems to disappear when they do, leaving nothing but irritation for his dad’s behavior. He should be used to this sort of thing, being treated like a child by his father because he’s short and thin and _unmanly_. He doesn’t get the respect he thinks he deserves from anyone, but the lack of it coming from his dad is what really stings.

Joseph is oblivious. He’s also visibly relieved, despite his initial anger, to have the Romanov’s out of his sight.

“Thanks for the lunch, Steve.”

Steve lets out a grunt that sounds a lot like a noise Phillips would make and brings the joke book back up to his face, content to ignore everything outside of it and his turkey sandwich.

\/\/\/\/\/

**[July]**

There’s a building in the Bronx on Bryant Avenue that’s owned by the elite members of the Romanov Bratva. It’s their base of operations, where decisions are made and plans are discussed, where they escape to after missions go good or bad. It’s also where they sleep and eat and yell at each other like a true family.

Each floor of the building is divided into two apartments on either side of the hallway, making the living spaces – which each consist of one bedroom and one bath – long but not very wide. There are eighteen units in the whole building and Bucky’s lucky enough to get one.

He’s lived here for five years and has been a Romanov for eight. The Bratva is his whole life. There’s really nothing else to it.

He’s in his designated space, sitting on the couch with his feet propped up onto the coffee table, pizza in hand and eyes on a sitcom that’s not even remotely funny, when his phone vibrates against the wood table, right next to his feet. He stretches forward and grabs it. The banner across the screen reads _Barton_.

Bucky drops his folded slice of pizza back onto the plate and rubs his fingers on the napkin beside him before bringing the phone up to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“Got something for you,” Barton says immediately. “Spur of the moment. Low action, one guy. Possibly Hydra.”

Bucky scratches his head and glances at the clock that’s hung in the space over the television. “I’ve gotta be at Arney’s in an hour. You think I’ll be done by then?”

“Probably,” Barton concedes. “It’s just a guy Tori spotted hanging around her place. Bill tied him up, but he’s asking for your help.”

“So, what? You want information?”

“If you can get it, yeah. Then get rid of him.”

Bucky drops his head onto the back cushion of his couch and shuts his eyes. There’s no point in beating around the bush. “Kill him, you mean.”

“Your call,” Barton says nonchalantly, but Bucky knows him well enough to recognize that slight strain behind his words.

All five fingers tap against his thigh four times before he answers. “I’ll head out now.”

“Good. I’ll send Dugan with you.”

Bucky exhales when the conversation cuts off. He shoves his phone into his pocket, drops his plate onto the table, and grabs his jacket, keys, and baseball bat on his way out the door. Dum Dum’s already in the car by the time Bucky makes it down, so Bucky waits until he’s seated to throw the bat to the floor mats in the back.

Tori’s place in Brooklyn is over a half an hour away. Even before he gets there, Bucky’s already wishing he could leave.

He’s got his gloves and bat and his Bratva state of mind when Tori wretches open the door. She’s wild-eyed and coiled like a spring ready to let loose at any moment.

“That fucker tried to pop cyanide in my kitchen, Bucky!” Tori hisses. It sounds like Hydra after all. “ _My kitchen_! Get him the fuck outta here right now!”

“Relax,” Bucky instructs lowly as he passes through the entryway.

The kitchen’s to the left and as soon as he rounds that corner, he sees a very angry, very tied up man.

“What’s your name?” Bucky asks. It’s something he always starts with, hoping for smooth sailing. But his luck’s been shit lately and the guy spits at him.

“You think I’ll tell you anything?”

Bucky rolls his wrist, twisting the bat in a circle. He watches the way the man’s eyes are drawn fearfully to his movements.

“I think you can be persuaded. And if you can’t, well… I’m prepared for a lot of things.”

“Fick dich!”

Bucky’s condescension is clear in his smile. And then, without a moment of warning, he gives a mighty swing of the bat, cracking it against the man’s kneecap. The scream is piercing, the next one less so.

Bucky drowns it all out.

/\/\/\/\/\

It’s the Fourth of July, which means everyone’s out tonight, drinking and laughing and waiting for the sky to darken enough for the fireworks to begin. But Steve’s not out for blasts of color or crackling booms this year. It’s his twenty-first birthday and that’s a cause for drunken celebration. Or so Sam claims. Peggy and Sharon don’t disagree.

The four of them head out to Coney Island Avenue where the 773 Lounge is because it’s an _Irish pub_.

“Hey, maybe your granddaddy owned a pub just like this one,” Sam says with incredible satisfaction.

Steve decides not to mention that his grandfather was an incredibly by-the-book catholic doctor and never drank a sip of alcohol in his life. He also chooses not to mention that his grandmother, on the other hand, did in fact work in a pub for ten years before moving to America. Sam would be far too happy to hear that information.

Because all of them or only fresh around or slightly over the legal drinking age, none of them really knows where to start, but they still have enough sense to head to the Shack in the Back for some food first. Sam gets wings and Peggy gets a veggie quesadilla and Sharon gets a handful of brownies because her sweet tooth is never satisfied. Steve, based solely on the title, gets a burger called the Shack American. His love for patriotism gets him teased by both Sam and Peggy, but it’s so worth it because the burger is one of the best things he’s ever had.

Then the mission to get drunk begins and they start with Guinness. No one but Steve likes it.

They taste whatever’s on tap numerous times, though Peggy refuses to give Guinness another try. She ends up with hard apple cider while Sharon sticks with Budweiser and Sam raves about something called a Magic Hat 9.

Steve doesn’t drink _a lot_ as the night progresses, but what he does have, when paired with his small stature, is enough to make him laugh at nothing and stumble over his own feet. He’s out of it enough that he doesn’t even mind when Sam starts screaming _“happy birthday!”_ as soon as they hit the streets again.

“Gabe was telling me about this nice –” Peggy starts, though her words get cut off by a dainty burp.

Steve snorts and grabs her arm, not quite sure if he’s trying to steady her or himself. “Are you trying to set me up again? ‘Cause… I’m not really interested right now?”

Peggy gives Steve a look that clearly shows she doesn’t understand why that last part was a question. But then she shakes her head, making soft curls bounce around her shoulders. “Bloody hell, I wouldn’t try to set you up with a _dog_. None of us are that desperate.”

“A… dog?”

Steve is so confused. What are they talking about?

“Yes, a dog. A friend for Cap.” She laughs, most likely at something going on inside her head. “Gabe says –”

Steve doesn’t make a habit of interrupting anyone, but his drunken state seems to forget this because as soon as his eyes land on a figure of a man standing in front of Arney’s Bar across the street, one that seems to be somewhat familiar, he stops in his tracks and starts calling out.

“Hey! _Hey!_ ”

Sam’s face scrunches with confusion. “Steve? What the hell?”

But Steve’s attention is solely on the fact that he caught the guy’s attention, made him turn around to see who was shouting, and that it _is_ him. Romanov from the station is standing across the way with his hands in his pockets and a look of annoyed confusion on his face.

“What the hell? What the hell?” Sam chants as Steve darts into the street. A car screeches to a halt a few feet away and honks their horn.

“Hey,” Steve says again, only quieter and a bit breathless. He’s pretty sure the expression on the man’s face shifts once he recognizes him because that plush mouth is now smiling.

“Joke boy.” Romanov’s eyes scan Steve’s slouched body. “No book?”

Steve, as inebriated as he is, _pouts_ , but it doesn’t last long before he’s smiling, too. “I’ve got a good memory. Here – just…” Steve shuts one eye tightly, trying to recall on his knowledge of useless things. “I mean… there was one about a shark and reefer, I think?”

The guy puffs out something like a laugh. “How drunk are you, kid?”

“Hey, if I’m drunk I’m not a kid,” Steve argues, crossing his thin arms across his chest. He tilts his head then, a little confused by his own words. “And I _am_ drunk, so I’m _not_ a kid _…_ in case that wasn’t clear.”

Romanov laughs outright this time. “Okay, well –”

“Oh, hey –” Steve interrupts again. “I should – I should probably say sorry for my dad… He’s part of the OC… OCCB, so he hates the mafia. And you’re part of the mafia, right? Romanov?”

The guy darts his eyes away and rubs at his chin, leaving Steve to believe he’s said something wrong. He probably has. It’s a sobering thought and suddenly the embarrassment is starting to catch up with him.

“Yeah, I’m… sorry. And sorry for bothering you. Uh –”

Steve starts to back up towards his friends. They’ve crossed the street at some point and are lingering several feet behind to watch.

“Hey,” Romanov calls out softly. Steve stops before he can turn to face away. “A neutron walks into a bar and asks ‘how much for a beer?’ The bartender says, ‘for you? No charge.’”

Steve’s eyes shut tight, his head gets tossed back, and he _laughs_. He laughs from deep in his chest until he starts wheezing and it’s only then that he’s able to open his eyes.

The guy is gone, but his face remains in Steve’s vision.

“ _Mafia?_ ” Sam asks and apparently he’s sober enough to sound truly incredulous.

Steve simply shrugs, as if talking to a member of the Russian mafia is an everyday occurrence, and pulls out his phone to call them all a cab to take them home.

 

When he wakes up in the morning, with a headache and the stale taste of vomit in his mouth, he’s clear-headed enough to be as mortified as he should. How stupid could he be, running across the street to talk to a member of the Romanov Bratva? Sam and Peggy have told him numerous times that he’s got a death wish and maybe he does – except… well, the guy just doesn’t seem dangerous. He’d entertained Steve’s stupid jokes and even told one of his own.

Whatever. He’ll just stay away from alcohol for a while.

Steve spends another five minutes lying tangled up in his sheets before deciding that 11:15 is as good a time as any to start his day. He stretches and then shuffles into the kitchen, whispering apologies to Cap for not refilling his food bowl. He drinks some water and takes an aspirin, heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth and then into his cluttered bedroom to throw on some jeans and a light sweatshirt. He checks his phone on the way out the door to see a text from Sam that demands he be told how Steve knows someone in the mafia, as well as a text from Peggy that blames him for her massive Guinness-induced headache. Steve’s pretty sure her sickness was brought on by all that hard apple cider she consumed, but he doesn’t tell her so.

He has to have a cab take him back to the lounge so he can grab his truck and drive himself to the nearest Walgreens for a box of granola bars and a prescription.

There aren’t many people in the store, just a few stragglers here and there, roaming aisles like any time before noon makes them a zombie.

Steve passes through the narrow space, careful not to bump into the lone body standing there. His gaze is already settled on the destination of the pharmacy in the back.

“So, how hung-over are you?”

Steve stops in his tracks. He can recognize that voice enough now to know who it is without turning around, but he does so anyway, just to see his face.

Romanov’s standing there, half turned in the aisle, with a worn cap on his head and aviators over his eyes. There’s a nasty gash at the corner of his mouth that hadn’t been there the last time Steve saw him, mere hours ago, but there’s also a tiny smirk.

Steve presses a hand to the side of his face and rests his eyes on Romanov’s shoulder.

“Not too bad,” he replies, his volume just below normal. “I think I’m more embarrassed than anything. I, uh, don’t usually act like that.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you’re drunk, pal. And you were pretty adamant about being drunk.”

Steve darts his eyes up to Bucky’s chin to take a quick peek at the smile there. He brushes his bangs away from his forehead, his own slight amusement manifesting through his expression.

“It was my birthday. I think that means I get a pass.”

Romanov makes a sound of interest and leans his shoulder against the shelving on his left. “Happy birthday,” he says. “I’m gonna guess you had a pretty good time.”

Steve shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched, and nods. “Yeah, s’good. Maybe a little too much Guinness.”

“Guinness?” Romanov’s mouth pulls down into an exaggerated frown. 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Okay, so what do _you_ drink?”

“What makes you think I drink?” He bites his lip when Steve simply tilts his head. “Vodka, mostly. But I like whiskey better.”

“And how old are you?”

“Old enough. Got a couple years on your twenty-one.”

Steve nods but he’s not quite sure what to say next, leaving them in a silence that’s awkward enough for him to imagine crickets chirping. He’s pretty positive that Romanov’s staring at him from behind his dark shades.

He clears his throat and takes a small step back, jabbing his thumb to point over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he says, though he’s unsure why exactly he’s thanking Romanov again or what for. So he tries to clarify, “For the joke. Last night.”

“Sure thing.”

Steve nods once more and then turns around, pulling a face at himself for how stupid he sounded. One steady deep breath gets him ready to smile at the pharmacists behind the counter, forgetting about the encounters with Romanov like any other stranger he would’ve met on the street. Except he met Romanov in a police station, but that doesn’t really matter.

After getting his prescription and perusing the aisles for a specific brand of granola bars, Steve heads back up to the front cashier. Romanov’s there, getting licorice, juice, and a pack of gum rung up. He throws a smile over his shoulder at Steve when he grabs his plastic bag and steps towards the exit. But he doesn’t leave because the second Steve steps foot outside, squinting through the high-noon sun, he gets stopped by Romanov once more.

“Lemme ask you something,” he says. When Steve looks his way, he continues. “Are you gonna be a cop like your daddy?”

“I thought about it,” Steve admits before he can think not to.

“You wouldn’t be very good at it.”

Steve jerks his head back on instinct and his forehead creases with insult. “I appreciate that,” he bites out.

Romanov doesn’t seem bothered. “Come on. He hates the mafia, you said so yourself, but you're talking to me right now. You’re not cut out to be like him.”

“You don’t know me or my dad –”

“I do, actually,” Romanov disagrees. “I’ve got a _rapport_ with Sergeant Rogers. He’s a real jackass with people who are lower than him. People like me are nothin’ but scum.”

Steve grits his teeth. The clenching of his fists is involuntary and he doubts it goes unnoticed by Romanov.

 “Cops don’t care. They fucking act like they’re almighty just because they got a certain badge and an issued gun. Someone like you?” Romanov shakes his head. “You’re not cut out for it. I bet you hear that all the time and it’s true, but not for the reasons you’re thinking.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Steve says roughly. He’s not one to back down from a fight and the words being said here and now are starting to sound like they’re leading to one. He has absolutely no qualms about punching a member of the Russian mafia right in the face.

“No, but I can guess.” Romanov drops the bag and steps forward. Steve stays exactly where he’s at, not so much as twitching. “Look – It’s not like it is on TV, you know? Very few actually care these days.”

“My dad stops the problems _you_ cause.” He laughs mirthlessly. “So forgive him if he’s a little hostile.”

Romanov’s hands go up in a form of surrender. “All I was saying is you’re too good for that. You’d be wasted working in some pigpen.”

That, for reasons he can’t fully explain, makes Steve deflate. His shoulders relax and his expression smooth’s and he heaves a sigh.

“You just insulted my dad but I’m pretty sure you were complimenting me at the same time. So… thanks?”

Romanov nods and grabs his bag. It’s him who turns to leave this time and Steve who stops him.

“What makes you think that about me anyway?” he asks out of pure curiosity.

Romanov shrugs, keeping his pace slow. He doesn’t look back at Steve when he says, “Just a feeling.”

“Hey,” Steve calls out. That gets a pause.

The guy throws a look over his shoulder, allowing his sunglasses to slide down his nose so he can peer over the top of them. From where Steve’s standing, he can barely make out purple bruising around the left eye.

Alcohol isn’t to blame for what comes out of his mouth next. “I haven’t eaten anything yet. You wanna get something?”

Romanov’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He drops his arms to his side and stares. “You’re serious.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah. You do eat, right? Or is that too normal for a member of the mafia?”

Romanov looks away as if annoyed, but starts a steady stride forward, shaking his head as he advances. “You’re hilarious, punk,” he mutters. “Lead the way.”

\/\/\/\/\/


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, Bucky doesn’t know what he’s doing here, sitting at a table in the back of the 773 Lounge, waiting for their Shack American burgers that Rogers was insistent about ordering.
> 
> “What’s your name?” Bucky asks because he’s not exactly comfortable with not knowing. Calling the kid Rogers just makes him feel like he’s being held by the guy’s father, waiting for an interrogation.
> 
> “Steve,” the kid answers. Bucky watches Steve put the tip of a straw between his lips to take a sip of coke. “What’s yours?”

Honestly, Bucky doesn’t know what he’s doing here, sitting at a table in the back of the 773 Lounge, waiting for their Shack American burgers that Rogers was insistent about ordering.

“What’s your name?” Bucky asks because he’s not exactly comfortable with not knowing. Calling the kid _Rogers_ just makes him feel like he’s being held by the guy’s father, waiting for an interrogation.

“Steve,” the kid answers. Bucky watches Steve put the tip of a straw between his lips to take a sip of coke. “What’s yours?”

Bucky’s a little more hesitant with his answer. He doesn’t know Steve, though he apparently knows enough to feel at ease. It must be those dumb jokes.

He leans back in his seat and starts popping his knuckles. “I’ve got a lot of names. Bucky’s the one I like the most.”

“Okay, Bucky. Nice to meet you.” He says it with a smile and it’s so sincere that Bucky can’t help but mirror him.

Still, he thinks Steve might regret saying that at some point, if they keep this up. No one’s ever thought meeting Bucky was _nice_ before.

They eat and Steve tries to start a conversation that can stick. He’s kind of awkward about it, Bucky thinks, and it’s refreshing. He can’t remember the last time he tried to actively spend time and engage with someone outside of the Bratva and its extended circle. It could be a good thing.

The closest to Bucky’s “work” they get to talking about is Steve’s inquiry of whether or not Bucky is an _actual_ Romanov.

“Not by blood,” Bucky tells him casually. “Though enough’s been spilled for it.” He takes a huge bite of his burger as he watches Steve’s reaction. The kid must know he’s being tested because, aside from glancing away very briefly, his expression doesn’t change.

They shift the topic after that.

“I wanted to be a soldier or a cop,” Steve states when they get talking about Sergeant Rogers again. “Not fit for either one.”

Bucky thinks the whole thing is a sore subject for him, so he chooses his next question carefully. “I bet you’re in college, right? What’re you studying?”

“Criminalistics.”

Bucky scoffs and sinks deeper into his seat. “Disappointing.”

He can tell when someone’s being genuine and Steve’s laugh is as honest as they come.

“Like I said, not my first choice. Not even my third.”

Bucky hums with interest. “So what would you rather end up doing?”

Steve drops his napkin onto the empty plate and reaches for his soda. He doesn’t pick the glass up, just rubs his fingertips against the condensation, marking lines and circles absently. Bucky’s gaze flickers from the movement back up to Steve’s face.

“Art.”

“That’s a pretty big switch.”

“It is,” Steve agrees. That’s all he offers.

But they hit a stride after a while, when they start talking about music and movies and growing up in Brooklyn as close as they did but never meeting each other before. Different school districts, different neighborhoods, different friends – or lack thereof, on both accounts – separating their lives by such a small thread for such a long time. It’s different now, of course. Steve’s as vanilla as they come and Bucky hasn’t been innocent since he was 13.

Bucky finds himself listening with rapture when Steve starts recounting the days of his youth, describing all the alleyways he got beat up in and all the wasted afternoons in detention because someone didn’t like his self-righteous attitude. It’s a shock to his brain.

“I don’t think I’m always right,” Steve explains. “But, y’know, I’m rarely wrong.”

It takes Bucky a moment of actual analyzing for him to realize that Steve’s joking. He’s got a good poker face but it dissolves as soon as Bucky grins.

Despite Steve being mostly open about general things, Bucky can’t bring himself to be that forthcoming. He gets the feeling that Steve doesn’t expect him to start ranting about his memories, both cherished and abhorred, and he appreciates that. He really does.

And before either of them realizes it, lunchtime turns into dinnertime and they decide to order something else off the menu. He gets nachos and so does Steve. Bucky also gets a beer, but Steve stays away from that one.

“How’d you get –?” Steve gestures towards his own face to indicate the bruises on Bucky’s.

They’ve left the table and are sitting at the bar now, having to lean closer to hear each other over the rowdy atmosphere of the bar.

Bucky takes a swig of beer and swallows. He supposes he can be honest on this.

“I got jumped.”

Steve’s brows rise in surprise. “Does that happen to you a lot?”

Bucky laughs because Steve actually sounds worried. “Lately. Not much before. But I’ve got a handle on it.”

Steve’s expression is a bit derisive.  “Looks like it. Bet I should see the other guy, huh?”

That startles a sound of pleasant surprise from Bucky. “Yeah, you little shit,” he declares. “And there were three of ‘em.”

Steve makes a low sound in his throat. “Likely story.”

Bucky seriously can’t believe this little punk. He doesn’t even know what to say, he’s so caught off guard, so he sticks with the first thing that comes to mind.

“You go to Coney Island much? They’re doing fireworks next Friday. I’ll take you if you want.”

What the fuck is he saying? He can’t do that. He’s _not_ going to do that –

But Steve looks so excited all of a sudden and Bucky can’t take it back now. Shit, he’s got a big mouth some times, and never when it counts.

/\/\/\/\/\

Steve doesn’t know why he ever tells Sam anything. All his friend does is over react.

“I am _not_ overreacting, Steve! How is me telling you not to hang out with some gangbanger from the Russian _mafia_ overreacting? It’s not!”

“No, but threatening to tell my dad about it is.”

Sam scoffs like he hadn’t done just that. “Listen –” Sam pauses only when Peggy steps through the door. “Peggy, back me up here.”

“What’s the argument this time?”

The hands resting on her hips are not a good sign for Steve.

“Steve met this guy –”

“Oh, _did_ he?”

Steve rolls his eyes at the perfect red smirk Peggy directs his way.

“That guy he went chasing down the street? He’s a member of the Romanov Bratva! Steve had lunch with him the other day and now they’re goin’ to Coney Island together.”

Peggy’s smirk falls as she turns to stare at Sam. “Surely you can’t be serious?”

“Oh, I am deadly serious.”

Steve prepares himself for a verbal lashing that will absolutely come.

“Steve, you utter moron!” Peggy nearly growls. He backs away when he spots her hand curling into a fist. “I don’t understand what makes you think this could possibly be a good idea? Your father’ll talk some sense into you –”

Steve’s spine straightens like a board. “And what’re you gonna tell him? That his grown son is meeting new people and choosing to live his life the way he wants? I didn’t realize that was a crime now! You know, contrary to what you might perceive, I’m not a child and I’d appreciate it if everyone started fucking treating me like an adult.”

Steve’s angry, but no so much so that he doesn’t immediately feel bad for raising his voice and cursing at his friends. He knows they’re only trying to help, he _knows_ , but damn he hates it sometimes. He sure as hell doesn’t treat them this way.

Peggy sighs. Surprisingly, she’s the first to crack. “You’re right, Steve. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Sam agrees, but he’s tenacious and doesn’t let up. “But if you start hanging out with this guy, you’ll get roped into that life. And I’ve seen how that goes.”

It’s true, of course. Sam’s an Advocate for the Office of Victim Services. He’s seen all kinds of trouble and Steve should trust him, but he trusts himself, too. Most of the time.

“Look, it’s not that big of a deal,” he tries this time. He seems to have earned Peggy’s sympathies because he doesn’t have to say anything more.”

“You damn well better be careful, Steve.”

He promises he will.

\/\/\/\/\/

They’ve got a mission tonight, a special one passed on from Fury to Natasha and then Maria, who ran it down through the Brigadiers. It originated from Judge Pierce. None of the lower-levels are supposed to know that, but Bucky’s not just _another_ thug. He’s a krysha, one of the best in the Bratva. And he’s one of the very, very few people Natasha trusts.

So he gets to know things others don’t, which means he’s informed about Pierce wanting Barton’s brigade to strike up a deal with Killian, the head of an underground group called AIM.

“He’s selling a highly dangerous substance called Extremis,” Barton informs his brigade during their meeting. “It’s some sort of virus being manufactured for anarchists. An unnamed source wants it off the streets.”

“How noble,” Bucky grumbles.

Barton keeps going. “And he wants a sample.”

Bucky snorts. There it is.

“Boss feels obliged to take the call, so this is where we’re at. зима,” he turns to Bucky and waits for complete eye-contact. “You’re front and center on this. Make Killian talk. The others will get what they can from whatever stash he’s got at base so you don’t have to worry about the drugs.”

Bucky stares at the wall behind Barton, trying ignore those implications.

“And how exactly do we know where this base is?” he questions. They’ve seemed to be getting a lot of information these days and most of it ends up with Hydra ambushing the shit out of them.

“Sources I’m not at liberty to talk about.”

So, Pierce. And whoever else is on his payroll for the time being.

“But the Boss assures us it’s legit. Let’s get moving.”

 

The underground lair of AIM is dark and pretty creepy. It smells like chemicals and blood and the noises resonating through the empty halls are disconcerting.

Dum Dum sticks with Bucky while Rumlow leads two others down the other end. Barton’s outside with Coulson and his crew, watching for everything and waiting to act if needed.

Bucky’s got his weapons and his wit. He’s also got a partner who can’t speak Russian to help catch any rivals off guard, so they have to rely on vague hand gestures in the dark. He points for Dum Dum to go left, but the burly man with a hat and a mustache shakes his head furiously.

“If I leave you alone, you’re gonna get killed. That bad luck, remember?”

Bucky doesn’t shut him up this time.

They stick together, staying near the darkest parts of the walls, following the sounds that are most suspicious; not the music in the back or the metal grating through the hall, but the screams and the laughter drifting towards them from the front.

They stop at a rickety door and Bucky takes a moment to just listen. He hears several voices, both male and female, and Bucky tries to clear everything away until he’s only focused on the muffled words being said from the other side.

“It’s still not right,” a man says. “We need to add the Rapture.”

“It doesn’t mix with Compound –”

“I don’t care! We need to get this done _now_!”

Bucky glances back at Dum Dum before he rears back and slams his boot into the door, knocking it halfway off its hinges. Panicked shouts ring through the air as the members of AIM try to escape. Bucky grabs ahold of the first person he can, which turns out to be a brunette woman. She lifts her chin defiantly at him, but her heaving chest and wild eyes gives away her fear.

“What’s your name?” he asks quickly, squeezing her to his chest so he can get a better view of Dum Dum trying to apprehend Killian. The rest of his people are fleeing down the halls and will be met by Rumlow.

“Maya,” she tells him. Her voice is clear and steady despite it all.

“You know who I am?” Unlike her, his voice cracks. She doesn’t answer, just breathes a little heavier, so he spins them around and points his gun towards Killian. “Do you know who we are?”

“Listen, listen – we can talk this out! You’re the – you’re the Bratva, right? You want Extremis? It’s not finished yet. We’ve got time! They don’t need it yet!”

“Who? Who wants the drug?”

Maya answers this time. “Anarchists. But Hydra’s the only one who hasn’t come for it…”

That sends a bolt of fear through Bucky. He knows firsthand what damage Hydra can do when they start working with drugs.

He gets why Pierce would secretly employ the Bratva to get this off the street, he’s had a lot of cases involved with members of AIM lately, but what Bucky doesn’t know is why Pierce wants a sample of the goods or why Hydra’s hiding behind an anarchist label. It’s not his job to ask and it’s not his business to know. Things like this make him tired and frustrated.

“What’s it made of?” he demands suddenly. Barton had told him he didn’t have to get involved with this, that he just had to make Killian talk, but now that Hydra’s involved _again_ … This can’t be a coincidence. “What’s Extremis?”

“It’s a mix,” Maya tells him weakly, clinging to Bucky’s arm as Killian glares at her. “Anarchists call it a virus because of the combination of street drugs. It’s highly addictive and it makes you sick, controllable… but the subjects keep dying.”

Bucky flinches when the gunshots start up in the hallway. He knows it’s Rumlow and he knows the people he’s taking out don’t need to be killed.

“Please,” Maya begs, grabbing Bucky’s attention and pulling him back. “You don’t know how many people have come through here looking for it. Do you know you’re picking it up for Hy –”

Bucky jerks when Maya gets shot. Blood splatters against his jaw and stains his close as she goes limp in his arms. It’s not until he lets her drop gently that Bucky realizes Rumlow’s standing in the doorway with his gun drawn, having just pulled the trigger.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He turns his back on Killian and Dum Dum to focus solely on Rumlow, his suspicion showing by the way he grips his gun at his side, ready for action at a second’s notice.

By contrast, Rumlow holds up his hands and possesses an extremely calm disposition. “Fury’s orders,” he relays. “Just doin’ the job. Knockin out the rivals.”

“And Fury told you that? Directly?”

Rumlow nods very slowly. Bucky doesn’t get a chance to respond because Barton starts calling for them. He motions for Dum Dum to pull Killian along with them.

They move into a side room where Coulson is shuffling through containers of drugs. Bucky is immediately uncomfortable.

“Do we know what these are?” Barton inquires, phone in hand. Natasha’s only a button away.

Coulson nods. “They aren’t labelled, but I recognize most of them.”

Bucky doesn’t know how that’s possible since Coulson seems more like a G-Man than a thug. In fact, he’d be suspicious of the clean-cut, quiet Brigadier if it weren’t for the loyalty he’s shown over the years. He’d been real good to Bucky, still is, so he has to trust him.

“This is Rapture,” he starts, pointing to the lineup. “Rave, some sort of compound, and…”

“Hook,” Bucky breathes. His chest feels tight.

Hydra, Hook – it’s all too close to home.

Barton puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and whispers, “Come on.” Bucky slips out from underneath the touch but does as he’s told. He doesn’t need this right now, so he waits outside. He has no doubt that Killian’s been disposed of. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to him and now Fury’s going to give him shit for it, he’s sure.

Bucky’s quiet on the ride back to the Romanov building, listening to Dum Dum’s words but not contributing to the attempted conversation. He glares at the back of Rumlow’s head through the space in the headrest though his mind is elsewhere.

 

“Why are we involved in this?” Bucky asks Natasha, quiet and heated. “Fury’s doing it for Pierce and I get that, but _why_? Why doesn’t he just go to the fucking cops?”

Natasha presses herself against the wall and closes her eyes. She looks tired. He can only imagine what she’s been doing for Fury lately.

“I don’t know,” she grits out, like it pains her to admit such a thing. “I’d tell you if I did, James. All I’ve got is that Schmidt’s out of Prison and he’s reclaiming Hydra. He wants to be top dog again and we’re in the way.”

Bucky can always tell when Natasha’s agitated because of the way she continuously flicks her brows up and down. She’s doing it now.

He slaps his fingers against those on his opposite hands, ticking off each item on the list that bothers him as he says it.

“It’s Hook, it’s Hydra, it’s Fury and Pierce and fucking Rumlow! All this shit all of a sudden, as soon as Schmidt gets out of prison? And how do you even know that? How does Fury?”

Natasha presses her lips together. Bucky huffs.

“Pierce, right? Probably one of his buddies that got him out?”

“I’ll talk to Fury,” Natasha promises. “Just take a rest.”

“I don’t need –”

“ _зима_.” The word is a threat on her tongue. Bucky glares but it dissipates by the time he turns to head back down the stairs, ready to retire to his room for the rest of the night. He’s glad he doesn’t have a shift at Arney’s because he’s too frazzled for anything but sleep.

His wounds aren’t as closed as he thought they were if once glance at Hook gets him sweating. From fear or craving, he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to think about it.

/\/\/\/\/\

A week’s past since Steve’s seen Bucky and he wonders if they’ll actually meet up for the fireworks like they’d planned. Numbers weren’t exchanged, so they’ll have to rely on being prompt at the time and place they decided on.

Peggy and Sharon are on the floor in front of his couch, giving Cap the attention he deserves, while Steve’s on his way out the door, a vibrating phone shoved into the pocket of his khakis. _Mom_ lights up the screen. All Steve knows is that if Sam put her up to this, there will definitely be some hell to pay.

He sighs and accepts the call, greeting her half-heartedly while he jogs down the stairs, his golden hair flopping with each bounce.

“I haven’t talked to you in days, Steve,” she says, her soft voice filtering through the speakers. It’s only when he hears her talk that he realizes how much he’s missed her. “You’re less than a half hour away and you still don’t visit. Is something going on?”

“I’m sorry.” He really is. “I’ve just been busy.”

She perks up at that. “Did you get another job?”

He hops up into his truck as he answers with a negative. She makes a sound of disappointment but switches almost immediately back to a hopeful tone.

“Are you drawing again?” Steve wishes she could see his smile. “Because if you are I know a few people at the Hospital who’d place some orders. There’s this new nurse and she’s got a son – oh, he’d love your work!”

“I’ve been doing some pieces.” The engine comes to life with a twist of a key. “Just something to do before school starts back up.”

“Where are you going?”

Steve chuckles at her unrestrained curiosity.

“To meet a friend.”

There’s a couple beats of silence and then an interested, “ _Oh_. Are you dating?”

Stave stares in the rearview mirror, watches himself roll his eyes. He needs to hang up before he leaves his street.

“No. Just a friend, Mom. I gotta go – I’ll call you later!”

Even with his hasty tone, he waits for her to say goodbye before hanging up.

He yawns and tries to find enough energy to get him through the afternoon.  He’d stayed up late attempting to finish the piece of work Gabe wanted, though that somehow ended up with him scouring for any public information about the Romanov Bratva. He could find mug shots of some members, Bucky included, and some newspaper articles about the gang throughout the years, but that was about it. Despite their longevity in and out of New York, their organization was pretty discreet. 

Steve felt… _wrong_ attempting to check into Bucky’s background, even though his father would classify it as smart and Sam would be pleased that Steve at least has some common sense. He’d rather just let Bucky tell him what he wants. If it’s all bullshit then Steve will just walk away. It’s that simple.

His thoughts get pushed to the side when he spots Bucky leaning against an old black car as he pulls up to park. When he gets out he notices just how nice the car is and just how tired Bucky looks. Steve offers a small, self-conscious smile when he approaches Bucky and is relieved when Bucky’s mouth melts into a similar expression.

“No more new bruises?”

If that’s the way Steve chooses to start their conversation then they probably aren’t going to have a very good one, he thinks, until he’s sees Bucky’s smile widen.

“I told you I had a handle on it.” He sounds almost teasing.

Steve grips at his bangs. There are different things he could ask as they slip into the crowds, all questions involving information about Bucky. He’s not quite sure where to start.

“Can we get something to eat?” he blurts, dropping his hand away from the hair on his forehead when Bucky looks down at him. “I’m hungry.”

Bucky shrugs and agrees with a light, “Sure. Where to?”

They grab something quick at the eatery nearest the beach though they choose to walk in the opposite direction as they eat. The sleeves of Bucky’s thin shirt are pushed up his forearms, revealing the skin of the left arm as completely inked. He stares at the intricate details, at what appears to be metal plating with crevices and bolts and spots mimicking a shine. It’s amazing.

When Bucky catches him staring, his arm twitches on reflex, like he makes to pull it out of sight, but he stops himself when Steve apologizes.

“It’s really amazing work,” he offers, feeling a little sheepish.

Bucky smirks a little, though it isn’t really smug. “Is that the artist in you talking?”

Steve’s laugh is airy. “Yeah, I guess it is. It’s just – it looks real. Like real metal. Very neat.”

“ _Neat_ ,” Bucky parrots, snorting with amusement. He takes Steve’s trash from his hands and throws it away in the receptacle they pass.

They start to circle back towards the beach when Steve spots the small B on Bucky’s right wrist. He gestures to it mildly, making Bucky look from him down to the point of interest.

“I’m assuming that’s not B for Bucky.”

Bucky nods. “I’m not that conceited, trust me,” he agrees.

Steve doesn’t ask for the information he isn’t offered, so he instead, he probes, “Do you have any others?”

“Yeah. Uh, three,” Bucky answers. And then his eyes dance all around Steve’s smaller frame, scrutinizing. “Do you have any?”

“Just one.”

That seems to surprise him. If Steve takes a little pleasure in that, it shouldn’t really matter.

“Where?” Bucky wonders, voice curious and underlined with a laugh.

Steve doesn’t really have anything to hide, so he doesn’t. He grips the collar of his shirt and yanks it down at to the side some, revealing a medium sized simplistic wing high on his right pectoral.

Steve’s pretty sure Bucky isn’t really thinking when he reaches out to touch the black ink, but it’s not something he minds. Bucky looks sort of awed by it which is definitely a new reaction.

The hand barely grazing his skin gets pulled away abruptly and then Bucky’s eyes meet his. “S’nice. Simple and clean.” There’s a brief pause in which Bucky studies Steve’s face again. He watches himself be watched and nearly bumps into a trash can. “Did you design it?”

Steve is impressed. He lets his expression show it. “How’d you guess?”

Bucky shrugs and his mouth curls at the corner. “I’m just good at reading you.”

Steve tilts his head back towards the darkening sky, glancing at Bucky through the corner of his eye. “Are you saying I’m predictable?”

“No.” The high-pitched tone says otherwise. But then Bucky laughs when Steve draws his shoulders up close to his ears and he gets an elbow to the arm for it, too. “I’m kidding. Come on, let’s get a spot.”

Steve follows Bucky onto the beach, curling farther into his jacket when then cooler night breeze starts up. There are a lot of people gathered around, waiting for the show in the sky.

He likes the fireworks, always has. He likes the expansive sky and the way it covers the city, likes the bursts of light against the blacked out canvas full of dotted stars. He even likes the cracking sounds and the way it rattles through him. He’s no longer naïve and he knows the fireworks aren’t just for him, not like when his mom used to tell him that every 4th of July, not like before he knew fireworks went off for weeks at Coney Island. But right now he feels special enough to forget something so silly can’t be true.

Or really, that it even needs to be. Being near a potential new friend feels good enough as it is. After all, Steve’s had the same three best pals for years.

“What do you do in the mafia?” he asks quietly. It isn’t really necessary since everyone is loud while they wait, but he thinks the attempt at privacy will be appreciated even if the question isn’t.

“It’s not just one thing,” Bucky answers brusquely. “Not with the Romanov’s.”

“Extortion?” he guesses. “Racketeering? Drug cartels?”

The way Bucky shifts is obviously out of discomfort. “All of the above,” he mutters. “And then some.”

“Murder?” Steve whispers. He asks it even though the answer might confuse him. He doesn’t want to associate with a murderer, of course not, but –

But there’s a ‘ _but’_ and there shouldn’t be.

“We do what we need to,” Bucky snaps. His muscles are visibly tense but Steve doesn’t shrink away. He challenges instead.

“And why do you need to?”

Bucky’s answer isn’t cut and dry. Steve didn’t expect it to be.

“There’re worse out there,” he tries to explain. “We’re not angels or saints. We do bad things, sometimes to good people, but we’re…” Bucky chews on his lip, clearly struggling with what he wants to say and what he can or can’t let slip. “In the bigger picture, we’re not as threatening as we seem. We get by the way we know how and that’s through the Bratva.” He turns to Steve with a look of accusation in his eyes. “We took out AIM ‘cause the cops weren’t up to the task. And you can tell your dad that, I don’t give a shit. Just make sure you tell him that he should be checking into Hydra instead of staking out our building.”

Steve’s a little taken aback by Bucky’s words.

“Bucky, do you honestly think I’m gonna run to my dad with whatever you tell me? That I would tell anyone? My friends know I’m with you right now only because they always know my business. I wouldn’t tell ‘em yours.”

Bucky watches Steve as he speaks and continues to do so after. If he’s right about being able to read him, then he’ll know Steve’s telling the truth. And he must because he accepts the words with a nod and returns his gaze back up to the dark sky. Steve keeps his eyes trained on the side of Bucky’s shadowed features.

“And I’m sorry,” Steve continues, maybe a little more gruffly this time because certain emotions make him feel strange. “I’d just like to know what I’m dealing with if we’re gonna be friends.”

There’s a twinge of nerves spreading through his body, making his stomach clench when Bucky directs an expression full of confused intrigue his way. Steve wonders, for a brief moment, if he got it wrong, if this is nothing more than a pay-you-back-for-dinner thing. Maybe Bucky doesn’t want to be Steve’s friend. Why would he? He’s probably just some weird little kid in the eyes of the guy sitting next to him; just a son of a cop that rains on his thug parade.

But looking into his eyes and seeing beyond that steel-gray color, beyond the shades of blue, let’s Steve see that his knee-jerk assumptions aren’t true in this scenario. Bucky can’t be assumed. Neither can Steve.

With palms digging into the sand, they watch the bright fireworks, focusing on nothing but the thundering from the sky. The sky goes dark again after a while and the crowds begin to move, including Steve and Bucky, who stride side-by-side, arms brushing all the way on their walk back to their cars. It’s not until they get to the awkward stand-and-wait moment that Bucky decides it’s finally his turn to speak.

“Monday… they’re playing a movie here. If you wanna –” He starts popping his knuckles again, Steve notices. “We can meet at seven?”

“What if you get tied up? Literal or otherwise.”  He smiles the exact moment Bucky grins. “I can give you my number, right? That’s not breaking any rules.”

“I never said there were any rules,” Bucky teases.

And just like that Steve’s submitting his number into Bucky’s phone and heading away with an awkward wave.

Steve draws the fireworks that night. He draws mysterious eyes, too. One page is more intricate than the other.

\/\/\/\/\/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few chapters written but most of the story is still a work in progress. But have a second chapter for now, just to get things going.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky, who’s beautiful and strong and mysterious, telling Steve that he’s attracted to him makes his body feel aflutter. He tries to contain his smile, to keep it small when it wants to spread wide. He forces himself to look Bucky straight in the eye, allowing him to see whatever emotions lie there, just for a moment.

Bucky’s weekend passes by in a blur of action and pause. He’d gone to work at Arney’s Bar on Saturday even though he wasn’t due that day just so he could get his paycheck early. Steve bringing up the oft-forgotten B on his wrist made him feel guilty that he hadn’t had contact with his sister in over a month, so he made sure to send her a portion of the money. The only note he ever attaches is _stay safe._

Then Sunday came and he’d gotten into a bit of a tussle at Russo’s Clinic when some basic street thug came in demanding care. The guy threated Sitwell, which Bucky couldn’t give a shit about, and it was only when he pointed a gun at Joe that Bucky involved himself. He got a bruise on his shoulder while the other guy got a broken nose and a fat lip.

He doesn’t call Steve, but he thinks about it at least once.

And then Monday rolls around and he should be paying attention the Brigade’s meeting but his thoughts keep straying back to the movie that will be playing that night. He doesn’t particularly like ET, but that’s okay. Steve might.

Steve might like a lot of things, honestly. Bucky doesn’t even know the surface of him yet.

“Bucky,” Dum Dum calls after the meeting, when they’re all on their way back up from the basement to the level floor. “Poker tonight. You in? Nat even promised to teach us a few things.”

Bucky smiles a little at that, but he shakes his head. “Got plans.”

Dum Dum tips his hat back so he can give Bucky a look of squinty interest. “You need backup? I’ll follow you. Ain’t no big deal.”

“It’s okay. Nothing like that,” Bucky assures him. They’ve reached his apartment and when he pushes inside, his friend follows. Bucky heads straight for the keys he’d left on the coffee table. “I’m just hanging out with a friend. And if you see Coulson, tell him I’ve got the Commander.”

“Oh…” Dum Dum looks a little shocked and rightfully so. Bucky doesn’t associate with outsiders often. “Yeah, sure.”

Bucky gives him a smile and a sloppy salute. “See ya later. Get on Natasha’s good side and you might not lose all your money!”

With those parting words of wisdom, Bucky locks up his apartment and heads down towards the garage to occupy the 1953 Studebaker Commander. It’s not his car, but it might as well be. Coulson lets him take it whenever he wants. And right now he wants to use it to meet Steve on the beach for a movie.

Bucky gets to their destination first, just like before, so he gets out of the car and leans against the door for a chance to breathe some fresh air as he waits. It doesn’t take long for Steve’s blue truck to pull up or for his small frame to jump out.

And that’s a thing Bucky’s noticed. Steve’s a small guy, smaller than average; probably only 5 foot 5, less than 130 pounds. But the way he holds himself seems as though he doesn’t fit inside his body, like he’s got a presence that’s larger than it, larger than life.

And Bucky can admit to himself that the more he sees Steve, the more he thinks about him – and he doesn’t really want to think about how much he thinks about Steve. The guy is good-looking. He’s got a serious demeanor, a slight strain around his brows as if he’s always deep in thought. But there’s something inherently warm in those electric blue eyes and the way he smiles is always sincere, often like he’s highly amused, which is far more contagious than anyone Bucky’s every met.

Steve treats Bucky like he doesn’t care what or who he is. Maybe he doesn’t. As far as Bucky can tell, there is nothing fake about Steve Rogers.

“Hey,” he greets with an easy smile. His hands go into his jean pockets when Steve’s go into those of his khaki’s.

They walk mostly in silence, stopping to grab some candy on their way to a spot away from the clumped groups. They’re farther away from the screen but Steve doesn’t complain and Bucky doesn’t really care either because they stop paying attention once the movie hits the ten minute mark.

“You have a really nice car,” Steve tells him out of the blue.

“It’s not actually mine,” he admits. “My friend collects old cars and he lets me steal his Commander. It’s my dream to own it.”

Steve snorts. That highly amused grin makes its first appearance of the night. “If you could only ever have one vehicle, that’s the one you’d pick?”

“Hell yeah. And you said it was nice, you punk.”

Steve laughs when Bucky presses a foot against his calf. “It is! I just imagined you wanting something else. I dunno, like a Firebird or something.”

Bucky’s noise of disgust gets Steve to roll his eyes. “I’m afraid to ask what you’d pick if you think I’d want a Firebird.”

“A Harley,” Steve replies, immediate and without shame. Bucky leans back to get a better view of Steve as a whole. “I almost bought one last year, but my mom thinks I’ll crash and die so I got the truck instead.”

“Awe, momma’s boy?” Bucky teases. Steve’s expression falls flat and it makes Bucky laugh. “I’d rather that than daddy’s clone.”

“Oh, _you’d_ rather?”

Bucky licks his lips, a little embarrassed at what both of them seem to be implying. He gives a soft chuckle and wraps his arms around his knees.

“I look for certain qualities in people,” Bucky tells him. “Love of khakis isn’t one of them.”

Steve shoots him a playful glare and snatches the bag of candy out of Bucky’s hands, shoving a handful into his mouth while pretending to watch the movie. So he kicks Steve’s calf again and receives an elbow to the arm in return.

Bucky sighs mournfully, knowing he’s lost his little chocolate candies for good, and pulls out his pack of licorice to chew on instead. 

“What did you wanna be when you were growing up?”

He sounds so purely interested that Bucky can’t refuse him an answer. “I went through phases. When I was real young I thought I’d be a firefighter. And then I got older and wanted to be a teacher, only because my sister liked to copy everything I did.” He shrugs. “Then I stopped thinking about it after a while.”

Steve tilts his head, shifts in his spot on the sand so he’s facing Bucky instead of the screen, and he asks, “You don’t think about what you’ll do after the mafia?”

“Steve.” There’s a laugh in his voice but he doesn’t feel any mirth. “There’s no _after_. If you’re in, you’re in. And even if you get out, you’re still in somehow.”

Bucky’s eyes are drawn to the way Steve’s jaw clenches, the way his brows furrow and his eyes flood with conflicting emotions.

“I don’t believe that, Bucky,” he tells him. “And you shouldn’t either. You can get out if you choose to. If you want to. Maybe someday you’ll do both.”

A piece of Bucky thinks maybe Steve’s right. Another piece thinks he’s absolutely wrong.

The two hours they should spend watching the movie are instead used to get to know each other. This is what Bucky finds out for sure: Steve’s very patriotic and moralistic, his favorite colors are red and blue, and he loves apple pie, babies his dog, and is a fighter in every sense of the word. When Steve truly laughs, it’s all encompassing. When he smiles, it’s sweet and private. When he gets flustered, and he does a little, when Bucky leans in too close or stares too long, Steve tilts his head down to hide the fact that his ears and cheeks have flushed pink – and Bucky knows this because he not so slyly pulls out his phone at the exact moment he says something a little too playful, pretending to check the unanswered messages when he really just wants the bright light to illuminate Steve’s features.

What Bucky’s not so certain of is if he maybe enjoys Steve’s company a little too much and if that’s going to become a problem.

“What’s your favorite?” Bucky asks as he nods towards the amusement rides when they start their trek back up from the beach.

People are milling about, jostling them. It’s not too much of a problem for Bucky but Steve sways more with each forceful movement, so he takes it upon himself to tug Steve along by the loose sleeve of his jacket, fingers sliding more thoroughly around the slight arm with each new step.

Steve shrugs one shoulder, obviously trying not to dislodge Bucky’s gentle grip by moving the other. It makes Bucky feel a surge of warmth.

“I like the bumper cars.”

A laugh bubbles up to Bucky’s throat, but he lets it settle. “You ever been on the Cyclone?” He already knows the answer before Steve shakes his head. “You’ve lived right next to it your whole life and you’ve never been on it?”

“I don’t like throwing up,” Steve tells him dryly.

Bucky shakes his head, mimicking disappointment though he feels nothing but an odd sense of joy.

“Next time we see each other, we'll ride it,” Bucky promises. “It’ll be fun.”

Steve’s surprised expression is also eager, if Bucky’s reading him correctly. Maybe he stares a little too long trying to figure it out, but who cares?

“And you’re sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I promise.”

Steve’s utterly skeptical expression makes Bucky feel lit up inside. It’s not just the challenge he’s after, he knows; it’s the prospect of introducing Steve to something new and enjoyable, just like he’s been doing this whole time. He wonders if Steve will eventually return the favor. He sort of hopes so.

Bucky lets go of Steve arm when they reach their parked cars and are ready to head their separate ways. He’s tempted to give Steve his number but ultimately decides against it. He makes another promise instead.

“I’ll call you.”

The words feel weird on his tongue because he hasn’t said them for a while; because the last person he spoke them to was the person he dated previously.

And Bucky’s not saying he’s dating Steve, of course not. He hardly knows the guy. He’s just saying that… well, maybe it sort of feels similar. Maybe –

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly misses Steve calling his name.

“Bucky?”

He clears his throat, clears his thoughts. “Yeah?”

Steve’s giving him one of those private, sweet smiles, and _shit,_ his heart did _not_ just stutter.

“I just said thanks and I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks to you, too,” he falters. His fingertips graze the short hairs on the back of his head while Steve’s expression turns far too innocent.

He’s the first to drive away and he watches Steve’s truck for as long as he can before it disappears from the mirror.

\/\/\/\/\/

**[August]**

July turns into mid-August and Bucky doesn’t call. Steve’s not still thinking about it, of course not. It just happens to cross his mind every morning – after he wakes up, when he goes jogging with Sam, when he’s at Walgreens or the station in Queens or at lunch with Peggy and Gabe. He even thinks about it when he’s at the park with Cap, sitting on the bench with his sketchpad because he’s unable to keep up with the hyperactive dog after too long.

Steve’s at the point where he’s bouncing between ‘ _that’s okay, he’s just a stranger, I don’t care’_ and _‘dammit, why do I miss him so much?’_

It probably doesn’t help that the only exciting thing in his life had been hanging out with Bucky those few times. He loves Sam and Peggy and Sharon, but their lives and routines have shifted. Peggy’s focusing on law school and her serious relationship with Gabe, not to mention the fact that the two of them are thinking of moving to Europe at some point in the near future. And then Sam’s all about his job and helping other people with their problems while entertaining the idea of joining the army. Steve knows Sam would’ve done so earlier, straight out of high school if it hadn’t been such a sore spot for Steve.

He’s not as close with Sharon, though they have the most in common at this point. Except while Steve is going to school for something he doesn’t really enjoy, Sharon’s still taking her time in deciding what her path will be.

Steve’s path has always been set for him. Bucky made him feel like he’d chosen something for himself for once.

 

“Steve?” He looks up from his pudding to catch his mother’s gaze. “Are you okay?”

He pulls an expression that he hopes successfully communicates _what do you mean?_

Her returned expression is flat. “I’m your mother. You don’t think I know when something’s bothering you? Is it about school? I know a month seems like a long time, but it passes so quickly – you don’t want to go back, do you?”

“Mom –” And he has to laugh a little, she worries so much. “I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong.”

It’s clear that she doesn’t buy it. “It’s about Sam then, right? I know he’s talked about the army, but it’s not a set thing. You could talk to him…”

“I’m fine,” Steve interjects, perhaps a bit too harshly. So he sighs and swirls his spoon inside the thick vanilla substance on his plate. “I’m just at a standstill,” he admits because he could never lie to his mom. “Everything’s happening around me and I’m just… unmoving. Stuck.”

His mother’s gentle touch to his hand makes him stop stirring his pudding, but he doesn’t look up.

“Do you need – is it your depression? Did you relapse?”

Steve huffs and pulls his hand away from hers so he can flop back into his chair and cross his arms indignantly.

“I’m not depressed, okay? And I haven’t been for three years. You can stop worrying any time now.”

“Hopelessness –”

“I didn’t say I felt hopeless, I just said I felt _stuck_.”

“Okay,” she agrees. Steve knows she’s being careful, knows she understands how easily he upsets when he feels coddled. “But if this is about school, you don’t have to go back. You know that, don’t you? You can wait or you can choose something else. I know your dad pushed you into this and he knows it to, so if you talked to him, I’m sure he’d understand.”

It’s not a bad idea. Part of Steve’s problem is that what he’s going to school for _does_ make him feel like he’s at a standstill, like he’ll never move forward or even worse, he’ll be pushed into something he doesn’t even like.

He’s about to say something agreeable when his phone gives a jolt inside his pocket. He spoons some of the pudding into his mouth and brings the device into view. He’s got a message from a number he doesn’t recognize.

_Sorry I haven’t called. Things have been hectic. Are you busy later?_

And then a second message pops up before he can tap to respond.

_It’s Bucky, in case you didn’t figure it out._

Steve feels a smile stretch across his lips, his solemn mood lifting that quickly. But he also feels a pair of suspicious eyes on his face. He flickers his gaze up to see his mom watching him very carefully.

“Girlfriend?” she inquires.

“Mom –”

Her eyes widen a little. “ _Boyfriend_?”

“Mom – _no_. It’s just a friend.”

She harrumphs. “Since when do any of your friends make you smile like that?”

Steve chooses to ignore her, which is probably more of answer than anything he could actually say, and focuses on replying to Bucky’s message with a simple: _I’m free._ He makes sure to save the number in his phone right after.

Bucky’s response comes quickly.

_Cyclone at 6?_

Steve finishes up his lunch and promises to visit his mom again soon before he heads back home. He needs all the time he can get to psyche himself up for that deathtrap.

 

“It’s crazy, right?” Bucky’s full of adrenaline and laughter when the ride is over. Steve is full of something that’s about to come up. “I think I was 10 when I – Steve?”

Steve covers his mouth and makes a beeline towards the nearest trashcan, surprised that his legs can carry him steadily. His eyes shut and he grips the edge of the can tightly as he retches, emptying his stomach of what little he had for lunch.

“ _Shit_ ,” he just barely hears Bucky curse. Then a hand presses against his back, rubbing soothing circles over the length of it, and fingers tangle into his bangs to hold them away from his face. Steve’s coughs turn into gentle, half-embarrassed sniffles.

“I’m sorry,” he says, keeping himself poised over the trashcan. Not because he thinks he’ll puke again, but because he doesn’t want Bucky’s hands to leave him. He feels so pathetic and he doesn’t even care.

“You warned me, but I didn’t think you’d actually throw up.”

Steve turns his head to look at Bucky, smiling a little when the hand in his hair untangles itself. He waves the apology off.

“It was fun.”

“You don’t have to try and make me feel better.”

“No, I mean it,” Steve assures. He decides now is a good time to straighten out his back even if it means Bucky’s hand slipping away from him. “I went skydiving a couple years ago and this kind of reminded me of that. The feeling. Peggy says I’d chase it if I could.”

“Peggy,” Bucky drawls.

Out of everything Steve said, Bucky picking out a woman’s name is telling. He waits for the next part, sort of hoping it’ll actually come.

Bucky settles his arms across his chest and swipes his tongue over his lips. “How long has she been your girlfriend?”

“She’s not,” Steve tells him. “We dated for a while in high school and then moved on. It’s sort of funny… I went out with this guy a few times after and she ended up falling for his best friend.”

It could be Steve’s imagination, but he’s pretty sure Bucky’s shoulders relax a little at the mention of his dating another guy. He can already feel the nerves prickling his insides.

“Are you upset about that?”

It’s a careful question and Steve appreciates it.

“No,” he says, and he means it. “They’re great people and I love them both. She wants to be a prosecutor and Gabe wants to teach French. They’re already talking about heading to Europe next summer.”

“But you’re upset about _that,_ ” he guesses.

“Well, at the same time, my other friend’s talking about joining the army.”

“Which you wanted to do.”

“Right.”

It’s odd how much Bucky seems to understand him, how Steve can feel comfort in Bucky knowing him in these ways, knowing how he feels and understanding without treating him like he’s breakable. It’s odd and it’s wonderful and it’s welcomed wholeheartedly.

Bucky nods. He says, “I bet I’m a better driver than you.”

And that gets Steve to furrow his brows. “What?”

Bucky takes a step back and a smirk lights up his face. “Bumper cars,” is all he says. It’s enough to get Steve chasing after him.

Bucky’s good at it, thinks things through and escapes like nobody’s business, but Steve is ferocious and doesn’t back down. Every time someone slams into his little car, even if it’s Bucky, Steve delivers right back. The way Bucky’s mouth drops open, his eyes filling with delight, makes Steve feel warm and completely at ease.

“Okay, so next time I’ll be in the car with you.”

Steve laughs. He doesn’t say how much he’s looking forward to it.

 

“Can I ask you something? It’s pretty personal.”

They’re at the lounge, eating nachos and brownies in the back. Bucky raises his brows and sticks a chip into his mouth, so Steve goes ahead.

“Why’d you get into it? What made you join the Bratva?”

Bucky takes his time answering, which Steve doesn’t mind. They sit there while minutes tick on, watching each other, picking at their food as they both think things through. Steve watches the way Bucky’s gaze flits between his face and the table his arms rest atop of, watches the way Bucky breathes slow and heavy.

The dim amber light hanging above them casts shadows across their faces. Bucky looks like a painting sitting in front of him, chisel-jawed and plush-lipped, with eyes that look haunted in the night and full of life in the daytime. Steve could draw him forever. He thinks he might just start.

“I was just a kid,” Bucky decides to say. “Things started falling apart. And then I met Natasha and it just seemed better.”

Natasha. Steve wants to ask who that is, what she is to him, but he has a feeling it’s a lot more complicated than _is that your girlfriend_ would allow for.

“I don’t leave because I don’t want to. Because I have no reason to.” Bucky watches his own fingers curl around his soda glass. “Because I can’t.”

“Why?”

“They’ve been my family for almost ten years.” It sounds like a confession. “I can’t turn my back on them.”

Steve gets that, the loyalty aspect. He’d never want to turn his back on the people he cared about even if it’s sometimes necessary. And if he doesn’t fully believe what he’s ready to tell someone else, then he’s not about to say it.

“Don’t you want a life of your own?” Steve wonders, curious and careful.

Bucky looks at him with a pinched expression as he asks, “Don’t you?” Steve doesn’t answer, so Bucky does for him. “You’re unhappy with your friends moving on, you’re unhappy with your dad dictating your future, and you’re unhappy with yourself. I mean, I don’t really get that last one –”

“If you were me, you would,” Steve grouses. Reflexively, he starts scratching at the napkin in front of him, fraying the paper with his short nails.

“Why? ‘Cause you’re not 6 feet tall and 200 hundred pounds?”

The derision in his voice makes Steve shake his head tightly.

“Bucky, when people look at me, they see what I am physically; they see weakness because of what I look like. And when people look at you, what goes through their minds? Someone strong and able? Someone they wanna connect with beyond a simple conversation?”

“You’re seeing it the wrong way,” Bucky tells him. “When people look at me, it’s… some sort of mystery.” His lips are curled in a deprecating smile and his eyes are wide and shining. “They see useful, maybe danger or a fun night. But the people who look at you and are smart enough to notice? They see someone they wanna know for the rest of their lives.”

Steve is – well, Steve’s more than a little surprised. He takes a deep breath, hoping it’ll help settle him.

“My doctor says that some people look beyond qualities of the physical. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Instead of leaning backwards, like Steve expects, Bucky leans forward. “Yeah,” he breathes. “And as far as appearances go, maybe you’re a little short, but you’re still pretty damn attractive.”

Bucky, who’s beautiful and strong and mysterious, telling Steve that he’s attracted to him makes his body feel aflutter. He tries to contain his smile, to keep it small when it wants to spread wide. He forces himself to look Bucky straight in the eye, allowing him to see whatever emotions lie there, just for a moment.

Whatever Bucky sees in Steve, it gets him to smile in a way that he hasn’t seen on that face yet. It’s softer, more reserved; vulnerable and genuine. Staring at Bucky makes Steve’s chest feel tight.

He can’t leave himself feeling this way. If he does, it’ll just drive him crazy.

“What kind of flower’s on your face?” he asks. Bucky’s confusion is visible for a brief moment before he realizes what Steve’s trying to do.

“Couldn’t tell ya,” he murmurs indulgently.

“Tu-lips,” Steve replies.

Maybe it says something about where his mind’s at and maybe Bucky will figure that out. Maybe Steve doesn’t really care.

/\/\/\/\/\

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait until Sunday to post but I'm weak. 
> 
> Steve's lame jokes strike again. 
> 
> (On a side note: how did people not find pre-serum Steve attractive? His face stayed almost exactly the same, just less thin and with a squarer jaw. Bucky knows what's up.)
> 
> Also, just wanted to say that what I'm doing with this story is sort of different? I'm not used to skipping over so much time (only showing a few days out of like each month). It makes it feel like Steve and Bucky barely spend any time together because I don't show it and then i feel like they're relationship is moving too fast, but that's just the way I started writing this and it's too late to go back now. Some things, like the relationship, probably feel more rushed than the stuff with the Bratva and I'm sorry about that. Still, I hope you guys can enjoy the story. It's just something fun for me to write when I can. I appreciate the kudos and whatever feedback you want to give.


	4. Chapter 4

“Dugan says you’ve got a new friend.”

Bucky doesn’t startle at Natasha’s voice, just continues to stretch his worn out muscles. He’s used to her sneaking up on him by now and can even do a good bit of sneaking himself.

“He’s cute.”

Though his instinct is to freeze, Bucky doesn’t. He reaches his arms up high above his head and asks, “Is that an assumption?”

“An observation,” she claims. “Dark blond hair, around six inches shorter than you, drives a blue Chevy.”

Bucky’s agitation can’t be held at bay. “Natasha.” There’s a warning in his tone. “Stay out of it.”

She cocks her head and stares at him unblinkingly. The door gets shut tightly behind her before she steps farther into the room.

“I’m not in it. Coulson is.”

“What the fuck – _why?_ ”

“Things are tough lately. You’ve had some run-ins with Hydra and your friends are just making sure you’re not compromised.”

“You honestly think I wouldn’t be able to tell if S –” He stops himself from saying the name just in time. “If he’s on Hydra’s payroll? I’m not an idiot and he’s not criminal.”

“No,” she agrees, keeping her tone soft. “But his father’s a cop.”

Bucky rubs at his face and turns on her angrily. “How do you know that?”

“Coulson took a picture. I recognized him from the station that day you got cut up.” She crosses her arms and spreads her feet, positioning herself like a bodyguard. She’s not looking for a fight, but she’s ready to keep him where he’s at until she’s done with him. “The son of Sergeant Rogers.”

“Please, Natasha,” he begs. “Don’t dig into this. Leave it alone.”

“You care about him.” The way she says it sounds accusing. She allows her expression to show confusion. “Why?”

“Why do we care about anyone?” He tries and fails not to sound exasperated.

Her eyebrows furrow. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she insists. “You care about him and you wanna keep him safe. James, is he –”

“Stop.”

He scratches at his forehead and moves himself to stand behind the couch so there are no barriers between them. Natasha’s chest heaves with her sigh.

“You’re needed on a mission.”

He eyes her skeptically, unsure of her motives on this. “I report to Barton,” he states.

“And Barton reports to me.” She smirks. “Let’s go.”

 

They stake out a known Hydra facility, one used back before Schmidt went to prison. It’s abandoned now, but Natasha swears there has been some movement these past few days. Rumlow had reported it which just makes Bucky all the more suspicious. Still, Natasha insists on checking it out.

The place looks thoroughly unused on the inside, with everything covered in dust and cobwebs. There’s no sign of entry, forced or otherwise, and there’s nothing to suggest anyone’s been inside.

But Natasha’s got a keen eye for details and it doesn’t take long for her to find one thing that seems to be amiss.

“Look,” she prompts, touching Bucky’s arm to get his attention. He glances at the bookcase she’s standing in front of. “Every shelf is dusty, except for that one.”

And she’s right. One section of a higher-placed shelf is clean, like it’s been cleared off and then reassembled recently. They share a look of wonder and suspicion that leads them both to pulling the books off. At closer inspection, Bucky finds a small latch hidden in the corner. A hiss sounds when he pulls it, indicating a release, so Bucky grips the side of the case and pushes.

Behind it is darkness. There are stairs in the floor leading down to somewhere. It fills Bucky with unease. He doesn’t know why, he’s never seen this place before… has he?

“We’re not going down there,” he tells Natasha, holding her back when she starts to make a move.

She stares, trying to get a read on him. He hopes he gives her nothing to see.

“We’ll be quick.”

How can he explain that it just feels wrong? That it feels familiar now, somehow? He doesn’t ever remember being here, but…

Natasha takes out her phone and Bucky does the same, both of them using the bright lights of their screens to help navigate the way. The stairs creak with each step they take, an awful sound that echoes in the back of Bucky’s mind, like he’s heard the exact sound before; in his nightmares, in his subconscious.

He can barely make out Natasha’s movements in the dark, but he knows she’s pulling a gun out from the back of her pants. Bucky used to carry one but stopped when he started getting arrested all the time, back when he first started with the Bratva. And now he only carries pocket knives or a baseball bat, things that aren’t too incriminating.

Natasha’s just always been more careful with her weapons and it shows. She keeps her firearm down as they reach the bottom of the steps, is ready to aim at the first sign of trouble. Bucky shines his small light around the walls in an attempt to find a switch or maybe a boarded up window, something that could allow him to see better. What he ends up finding is a chain hanging from the ceiling and he sighs with relief when the bulb actually turns on.

The relief doesn’t last long.

In the middle of the room is a chair with various straps attached and an old, steel table by its side, filled with instruments of torture – electrodes, prods, knives, and needles. There are dusty screens off in one corner, a box full of discs stacked on top, and Natasha’s heading towards it, unaware of the onset of panic Bucky’s experiencing.

He knows this room. He’s been in it before.

Bucky stares at the chair and knows exactly where he’s at before the sounds from the CD start crackling through the air.

_“Day two_ ,” an accented voice declares. _“I will administer the drug known as Hook to my eager volunteer –”_

_“Fuck you! Fucking sick little prick! I’ll kill you!”_

_“Strap him down.”_

_“Wait – No, please. Please, don’t. I – I don’t want it. Stop! STOP!”_

His own screaming sends chills down his spine, makes Natasha gaze at him in plain horror. She stops the recording immediately and takes a giant step away from the device in attempt to distance herself from the pain of Bucky’s past.

“It had my name on it,” she tells him softly. “I didn’t know it was –” She can’t finish the sentence.

Bucky takes a deep breath, tells her, “I’m fine. It’s been five years… I just, I wanna leave it there.”

“Of course,” she whispers. Then, after clearing her throat, adds, “It looks like someone’s been down here recently.”

“Let’s make sure they don’t come back.”

Bucky has a pretty good idea of who would’ve revisited this place. Now that Schmidt’s out of prison, that sick fuck Zola has no problems inserting himself back into the life. Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if _he’s_ the reason Hydra goons have been ambushing the Bratva; he’d had an odd fixation with Bucky that he doesn’t care to ever think about again.

So he grabs a stool from underneath the table, lifts it high above his head and, with all his strength, smashes down against the TV and the CD player, over and over again. Then he tosses the stool at the wall and pulls the collapsible table out to ram it against the chair that’s bolted to the floor, the same chair he’d been shoved down on, burned and cut and drugged to hell in. Time gets taken to cut the straps off it with dull knives while the other instruments get tossed around the room. Natasha’s empathy shines through while she shatters all of the discs, being extra harsh with the ones marked Romanov now that she knows they contain his suffering.

And as Bucky destroys the remnants of a past he worked so hard to overcome, he wonders when – not _if_ – he’ll meet Zola again. It’s only a matter of time, he’s sure.

He slams the bookcase shut again when it’s over and leads the way out. It’s habit to look over his surroundings, for cops or other thugs in the area. This time, it’s an excuse not to look back.

When they leave, the place is empty once again.

 

“Tell me about him.”

The car smells like Chinese food and they’ve only just opened their containers. Her interest, which will now be unyielding, only puts a slight damper on the boosted mood the food gives him.

“James,” she prods. She’s smiling at him – small, but visible. He rubs at his nose in an attempt to keep her from seeing his own grin. There’s just something happy that courses though his insides when he thinks about Steve, even now when he’s feeling a little shaken up from the events of the past hour.

“He’s just some little punk. I dunno. I like hanging out with him.”

“What’s his name?”

He gives her a look that’s playfully scornful. “I’m not telling you.”

“You don’t think I can find out? I already know his last name.”

Bucky huffs and stabs at a piece of his orange chicken. “Steve,” he grumbles.

Her smile widens. “And you met him after getting bailed out of jail. The beginnings of a fairytale romance.”

He snorts. “Neither one of us believes in fairytales.”

“Or romance,” Natasha agrees. Then she teases, “Or maybe that’s just me these days.”

Bucky forks more chicken into his mouth as a way of suppressing his irritated groans.

“Fine, I’ll be serious. What have you told him?”

Bucky shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not much of anything,” he admits.

“But you want to.”

Bucky sets his food down on top of the center console and uses his hands to hold his jaw instead. “What do you want, Natasha?” he asks softly.

There’s something regretful in her expression. “I want you to be happy. But I want you to be safe, too. Especially right now.” She shifts in her seat to face him more thoroughly. “This… Steve is keeping you out of trouble and that’s great, but you might be bringing trouble to him. Just think about it. If Coulson can follow you and you’re too engrossed in your friend to know it, who else is out there doing the same thing?”

Like he hasn't thought of that already. Like he doesn't know how much danger Steve could be in or how weak he is for not trying to cut contact. And he's very weak for Steve, he decides, because as soon as Natasha takes them back home and he’s safely locked away in his apartment, he gets his phone out and calls Steve.

Steve answers with an enthusiastic, “Bucky!” on the third ring.

“Hey, Steve.” He pauses to bite his lip for a second. “What’re you up to right now?”

\/\/\/\/\/

Steve’s not sure if inviting Bucky over was the right move or not, but he sounded like he wanted company – like he wanted _Steve’s_ company, in particular – and Steve couldn’t bypass that.

He puts away his art supplies and tells Cap to behave just before the knock on his apartment door sounds.

As soon as Steve opens the door, before he can even say hello, Cap bounds over to sniff the new visitor. Bucky’s a little surprised at first but the smile on his face when he bends down to let Cap jump all over him is unbelievably charming.

“He’s not like that with most people,” Steve tries to explain, though he has a feeling Bucky’s attention is mostly on the excited dog. “You and Peggy smell pretty good to him, I guess.”

“At least someone’s happy to see me,” he says pointedly.

Steve crosses his arms. “What, you want me to jump all over you as soon as you walk through my door?”

Bucky glances up at him and Steve swears his eyes are full of mischief.

“Just sayin’, it could be nice.”

Steve laughs and hopes the fact that his ears have turned hot isn’t visibly noticeable.

“Keep dreaming.”

“Trust me,” Bucky says as stands up to his full height and leans into Steve’s space. “I will.”

Steve knows that something’s been shifting this whole time – he’s not oblivious, contrary to what his friends sometimes believe – but now it just seems so obvious. Unless Bucky’s just flirty with everyone. Steve hasn’t seen him interact with anyone else to be able to tell.

Steve stops into the kitchen, shaking his head at the way Cap’s trying to settle himself into Bucky’s lap on the couch. He grabs a couple cans of soda and moves to join them.

“Are you okay?” A few minutes have passed, so he figures it’s safe enough to ask. “You sounded a little odd when you called.”

Bucky sighs. He takes his time sipping and then setting the can onto a magazine on the table and digs himself deeper into the worn leather couch, twisting just enough to look up at Steve.

“Old nightmares. And Natasha just gets under my skin sometimes. She knows I’ve been hanging out with you.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Steve watches as Bucky shuts his eyes and then proceeds to cover his face with his hands, using his fingertips to massage his temples. Steve can’t imagine the life Bucky’s been living, constantly doing things that could get him sent to prison or put in the hospital or thrown in a ditch somewhere. The strength it must take to keep going… well, Steve knows a bit about _that_.

Finally, Bucky shrugs. “It could be,” he decides. “It could be and… it’s not worth it.”

“What’s not?”

“This.” Bucky gestures between them. “Whatever we’re doing. Being friends.” There’s a tired, wry smile fit in between his words.

“Why isn’t it worth it?” Steve sets his soda down and turns until his knee presses against Bucky’s thigh. They don’t look away from each other. “I think it is. I think knowing you is worth anything.”

His pulse stutters at the words that slip off his tongue. The way Bucky’s eyes dart over his face makes his stomach clench and the way he smiles makes Steve’s throat closing up.

“You’re crazy, Steve.”

“You know what you said, about people seeing danger or a fun night with you? I thought that at first. Not the fun night – I’m not under any illusions. I mean, I didn’t figure you’d be interested, but at first I think there was the just idea that I was doing something I shouldn’t be doing and that was exciting? But the real thing I was after, that I _am_ after, is how you make me feel different when you’re around. I can’t explain it. It's just like I should’ve known you this whole time and that I wish I did.”

Steve looks down at his hands, uncomfortable with his emotions and how he’d just chosen to express them. Sometimes he just can’t say the things he wants to say and other times he says exactly what he means to. He doesn’t know which side this conversation falls on.

“Steve…” Bucky’s voice is far too soft. In contrast, his grip on Steve’s arm is firm. “I don’t think there are any illusions with us.”

Steve glances up, ready to ask what he means, but he doesn’t get the chance. Bucky pulls him closer until their lips are inches apart, until the air they breathe is shared solely between them, until it’s too intense to keep their eyes open any longer.

And then Bucky does it. He leans over that last inch and presses their mouths together, parting his lips to fit seamlessly against Steve’s, even with their noses bumping. Bucky’s lips are warm and chapped until he swipes his tongue forward, tickling Steve’s delicate skin and stealing his breath simultaneously. Though Bucky doesn’t pull back, he stops the action too soon, leaving Steve eager to just tilt his chin up and lock their mouths together once more.

“Is this okay?” Bucky murmurs, and there’s something excited in his voice, like he wants to make sure he’s right, that both of them want and have wanted this.

That neither of them have been under any illusions.

Steve hadn’t pictured him asking such a thing, but maybe it’s important for Bucky to know; maybe it means _this_ is important and not something either of them wants to mess up.

Steve can’t stop from grinning.

“Is what okay? We haven’t done anything yet.”

Bucky laughs from the back of his throat, breathless and short.

“Fuck you.”

“Is that the plan?”

“ _Fuck_. You just – yeah?”

Steve’s enthusiastic nod surges Bucky forward, clanking their teeth when their lips smash together roughly. With Bucky’s body looming forward and being the taller of the two anyway, Steve has to arch back, has to press his sweaty palms against the leather of the couch, even has to go as far as lifting his hips for balance when Bucky continues to push, like his goal is to get them lying down. Steve can do that. He can absolutely do that.

He lets his arms give out so that his back hits the cushion, which forces Bucky to hover over him. They part just long enough to situate themselves, tangling their legs as they gasp against each other’s slackened mouths.

Steve goes back for more first, pulling Bucky’s top lip between his and then tilting his head down to capture the lush bottom lip to suck on leisurely. Bucky makes a sound of approval that forces air out through his nostrils and Steve’s chest shakes with his own need to breathe more deeply, to take in Bucky any way he can.

They stare at each other with rapid rise-and-fall chests. Bucky’s lips are wet and red, his eyes lidded and mostly pupil, the blue-gray ring like a storm around a dark tunnel. Steve doesn’t know what he looks like to Bucky, but he swells with pride and desire when Bucky mouths at his jawline and moans his name.

Whatever experience Bucky’s had, and Steve’s sure he’s had plenty, it doesn’t seem to mean he wants to take the lead on this, so Steve resigns himself to doing it. He fits his hand into Bucky’s hair, holds on tight. His other hand pushes down against the small of Bucky’s back to lower narrow hips as Steve maneuvers his own higher. The reaction he gets is a tongue skillfully tracing its way into his mouth.

Hands slide up and down Steve’s sides, fingertips splaying across his ribs and the left area of his chest, near the beat of his heart. A knee slots up high between Steve’s legs, making his breath catch and his muscles tighten, all blood flow going south. There’s not enough room on the couch and it’s going to have to be addressed soon if they go any farther – and Steve’s not opposed to that idea. He’s never been about taking things slow anyway; he just needs to know if this is what Bucky wants, too.

Bucky breaks the kiss again. Steve’s pretty sure he whines a little, but he can’t be positive.

“S’comfort,” Bucky manages to say, though it sounds like a struggle. “It’s _right_. That’s how _I_ feel when I’m with you.”

Steve reaches up to caress Bucky’s face, running his fingers against the stubble shaded on his strong jaw. The fact that he _can_ , right now, only serves to make him bolder, so he presses a thumb to Bucky’s swollen lips and sighs when it elicits a moan from that clever mouth.

“That’s what I want,” Bucky murmurs, hot breath puffing against Steve’s skin. “And I shouldn’t. You shouldn’t give it me.”

Steve understands. He doesn’t agree, but he understands.

“I won’t then. _You_ can give it to _me_.”

Bucky smirks and presses up against Steve’s groin with his thigh, obviously relishing in the shaky breath it gets Steve to exhale.

“Are we talking about comfort or fucking?”

“Is there a difference?” Steve blurts out, his arousal pulsing.

And then he laughs and blushes, curves his back so he can bury his face into the arm of the couch. All it really does is slide his erection farther up Bucky’s thigh, so Bucky grabs Steve’s hips firmly in an attempt to keep him in that exact place.

“You’re unbelievable,” Bucky mouths into Steve’s neck, gripping thin hips tighter to hoist him farther up. “I didn’t think you were like this. I love it.”

Bucky’s words, just as much as the sudden rocking of his hips, make Steve groan. He feels hot all over; hot and tingly. His breath comes out in short gasps but it’s not even close to an attack. He’s just worked up enough for it to feel good.

Steve doesn’t do this often and he wouldn’t, even if he had a line of people wanting to be with him. He’d slept with Peggy and with Monty. He’d even come close with Sam at one point, but it never felt right that way. And yet somehow, with Bucky, it feels right immediately. It feels like it could never be wrong. It feels like he needs it as much as he wants it. And boy, he wants it bad.

“ _Bucky_ ,” he moans, pleads.

Bucky leans up from where he’d been sucking a bruise into Steve’s neck, cool air rushing against that wet patch of skin and making him shiver. Steve wonders if Bucky realizes he’s still grinding down against his leg, trying to find friction that Steve is more than willing to give.

“Bucky. Off.”

Bucky huffs but follows orders and slides himself off Steve, looking expectantly at him through hooded eyes and long lashes. Steve is able to get to his feet and when he does he reaches for Bucky’s arm, but Bucky clasps their hands together instead. It feels so innocent and almost even more intimate that what they’d already been doing. Steve squeezes and never wants to let go.

Then he swallows and drags Bucky to his bedroom. There are no protests – except maybe from Cap, who starts whining when the door gets closed against his curious nose.

And as soon as they’re locked inside the small space of his bedroom, Steve gets crowded near the door, one of Bucky’s hands threading through Steve’s hair to press his head against the wall while the other hand tugs Steve’s hips backwards by a finger curled through a belt loop. His ass is sticking out and Bucky’s slotted right up behind him, grinding into him, and the hand that had pulled him back now creeps towards the front to palm Steve’s erection from over his khakis.

“Fucking khakis,” Bucky pants, mouth hot and wet against the shell of Steve’s ear.

“God, Bucky. If you hate ‘em so much, take ‘em off.”

There’s a hum and Steve has to brace himself by pressing his hands flat against the wall when Bucky undoes his belt and gropes the straining cock through cotton boxers. He tries to be patient at first, but Bucky just keeps rubbing and rubbing and Steve’s going crazy.

“C’mon, Buck,” he grits out, smacking his forehead against the wall when Bucky refuses to let him turn around.

“I’m just getting a feel for things.” Bucky nips the back of Steve’s neck as his slender fingers start toying with the waistband of snug briefs.

“I’m not in a rush, but – just –”

A strangled sound gets torn from Steve’s throat when Bucky’s fingers curl suddenly around his aching cock.

“Shit,” he hisses, reaching blindly behind himself to grab ahold of Bucky’s arm. He needs the steadying because Bucky’s other hand snakes around to pull Steve’s pants and briefs down as quickly as he can.

“Look at you,” Bucky praises, fisting his hand around Steve’s length for a long, slow stroke. He swipes his thumb over the slit and uses some of the precum to help his next stroke glide a little easier, though Steve’s not complaining about any rough treatment. “Look at you. _Fuck_ , _Steve_.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” he growls. He pushes back against Bucky with enough pressure to make Bucky whisper something in a language that’s probably Russian.

The hand on his erection disappears suddenly and then he’s turned and led away, pushed atop the bed with Bucky straddling his bare hips. Steve’s eyes are half-closed, but he reaches up to tug Bucky’s shirt over his head, taking the opportunity to cup his hand around Bucky’s neck to guide their lips back together into a heated, sloppy kiss.

Steve’s hands are steady and they reach for Bucky’s belt, undoing it with swift, controlled movements. It’s as an afterthought that he registers the faint scarring on Bucky’s body, the different marks on his sides and the raised tissue near his shoulder. But when Bucky pulls away from the kiss to drop his head and sink his teeth into Steve’s shoulder, the wonder about the scars flies out his head so he can concentrate on the sensation as well as his own nimble fingers pulling Bucky’s hard cock out into the open.

They don’t say anything more, words being replaced by breathless, broken moans and the occasional snigger when one of them let’s slip a squeak or tickles the other accidentally. Bucky eventually slides down to lick at Steve’s dribbling erection, to kiss the length and suck the head into his mouth. Steve’s helpless against the onslaught, can’t do anything but lie there and lose himself in it, staring with blown eyes while he tugs at dark hair and whispers things that should be words but come out as pure noises.

Bucky slurps and sucks and pops his lips off around the head, sinks his mouth as far down around Steve as he can get, swirling and flicking his tongue along the way. It takes every ounce of self-control Steve can find to stop himself from fucking up into Bucky’s throat. With the way Bucky’s coaxing him, moaning and ogling him through dark lashes, he probably wouldn’t even mind if Steve did.

And then it stops. Bucky pulls off, gulps for air, and starts peppering kisses up Steve’s bare chest. He’s dazed and needy and agitated, doesn’t know why things have halted when he’s so close. The only thing that dangles him right over that pleasurable ledge again is when Bucky goes in for a rough, deep, lip-biting kiss.

“Bucky, can I –” Steve starts to ask, to _beg_ with a wrecked voice, reaching down to wrap his hand around Bucky’s heavy shaft. He wants to return the favor, but Bucky has other plans.

He moves Steve’s hand away from his cock with great reluctance so he can line it up with Steve’s, the new contact making both of their hips stutter. But that’s the point. Bucky’s hand curls around both of their leaking erections, barely able to fit around, and he pumps them in his fist at an unforgiving pace until he starts thrusting instead, pressing Steve harder into the mattress. Steve arches up to kiss Bucky’s jaw, his chin, his nose; places a feather-light kiss on pouted lips just as his toes curl and his hands dig into the tense muscles of Bucky’s back.

It’s white-hot and blurry and he’s moaning Bucky’s name, curling up and stretching out and gasping between his throaty mewls of satisfaction.

He feels Bucky’s cum on his stomach and hears his name being uttered like a prayer. It thrums through him, makes him tremble. It’s like the whole world has narrowed down to nothing but Bucky and he’s powerless to stop it, wouldn’t even if he could.

As he starts to settle down, Steve hazily busies himself with kissing the damp skin above him – the exposed throat, the curve of a shoulder, the protruding collarbone – until Bucky’s slowed thrusting stops and he releases both of their soft dicks.

“Are you okay?” he asks, still a little breathless but not nearly as much as Steve. He’s clearly worried and Steve smiles drowsily at that.

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

“Do you need your inhaler?”

Steve’s face scrunches in confusion. “How’d you –”

“It’s on the nightstand,” Bucky explains.

He’s quiet and his movements are languid as he rolls away. He keeps one soothing hand against Steve’s chest, trying to help him breathe even as Steve promises that he’s okay.

The heat he’d felt is now draining, leaving him to succumb to the coldness of the room. Steve forces himself onto his feet so he can pull the covers of his bed down, prompting Bucky to get up as well, standing there almost self-consciously as he watches. When Steve gets himself settled underneath the sheets, he pats the left side of the bed, letting Bucky know he’s welcome and encouraged to join him. He’s both surprised and pleased when Bucky does just that, even going as far as to wiggle his way closer to Steve so he can loop their legs together.

If Bucky turns out to be a cuddler then Steve is going to have some real problems letting him leave.

“Steve…”

Steve tucks his chin towards his shoulder so he can stare down at Bucky’s slightly strained expression.

“I didn’t come here just to fuck around, y’know? I don’t want you to think that.”

“I don’t.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, leans up on his elbow to hover over Steve, gaze flickering all across his face.

“Then what do you think?”

Steve hums, doesn’t even pretend to think when he responds with, “I like kissing you.”

Bucky leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss against Steve’s mouth as a reply, smiling into it. Despite everything, Steve feels his ears start to burn at the sweet gesture. He pulls the sheet tighter against his body, cocooning himself, which prods Bucky into sliding closer in search for skin-on-skin contact.

“Okay,” Steve breathes. “I think we don’t know each other that well and maybe we’re rushing whatever this is, but I know it’s worth it.”

“How? Like you said, we barely know each other.”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure I have your semen on my stomach –”

“One-night-stands know as much about each other as we do,” Bucky interjects.

Steve raises a brow. “We definitely know more about each other than that. And I thought you said I wasn’t just a fuck?”

“You _aren’t_ ,” Bucky huffs. “What I’m trying to say – I dunno. I’m thinkin’ about the potential problems here and there’re a lot.”

“I know that, Bucky. I _know_ that. But if the way I’ve lived has taught me anything, it’s that there’re always risks, no matter what you do, and if you wanna keep going then you do it. You have to.” He takes a deep breath and releases the sheet, lets it slip down towards his waist as he sits up. “You said I’m crazy. I’m not. I’m stubborn and reckless and I can’t let people go once I get ‘em, and that means I’m with you.”

Steve stares at Bucky and Bucky stares at Steve, conflicting emotions playing through their eyes, and neither of them can look away. Then Bucky reaches forward, cups Steve’s face in his hands to pull him atop his body as he rolls to his back.

“You’re with me,” he murmurs. He says it like he’s in awe. Steve’s eyelashes flutter with the way Bucky’s thumbs trace his cheekbones. “And I’m with you,” he affirms. “And I’m gonna do what I can to keep you out of everything that happens outside of us.”

_Us_. Steve’s breath comes out shaky.

“I can take care of myself,” he tries to protest. Both of them are aware of how weak that argument is.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Bucky tells him, though his words aren’t harsh and neither are the hands that slide up Steve’s arms and down until he can touch each of Steve’s fingers. “You can’t know the people I know and you can’t get involved with the shit I do. It’s gotta be this or nothing.”

Steve’s answer is _this_ and it always will be. He hopes the kiss he gives Bucky will convey that properly.

/\/\/\/\/\

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm only sort of sorry for this chapter.
> 
> i hope you guys are still enjoying?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Remember when I said Natasha knows about you? Well, she’s not the only one. Fury – our boss? He does, too.”

**[September]**

September passes by quickly.

Steve has to go back to school, which means that the time Bucky just started being able to spend with him is already getting cut short. But Bucky makes room in his terrible life for Steve to slot into by staving off whatever missions he can without raising red flags, and Steve makes time for Bucky by opening his mind to more than just the books he has to study or the friends he has to appease.

They start the month off slow, interacting as much as possible but containing the way they do it. Coney Island is a frequent visit. They ride the bumper cars and tour through the aquarium and even try the Cyclone one more time, both feeling proud when Steve’s able to keep his stomach settled. The 773 Lounge is stopped at often, too, with both of them drinking enough to give them a pleasant buzz on more than one occasion as they stumble through the streets.

Bucky goes to the park with Steve sometimes and runs around with Cap while Steve sketches, and then they argue about something petty, like which musician is better or something more serious, like how hard it would be to live a different life, all the way back to Steve’s cozy Brooklyn apartment.

But then Bucky has to go back to the Romanov building in Bronx, the place he lives and has lived for six years, and things feel like they always did before he met Steve. Sectioning him off into only one aspect of his life is like keeping one blind open for sunlight in a mansion full of darkness. He can feel the brightness Steve brings, but it fades so quickly because it has to, he needs it to. He can’t arouse anymore suspicion than he already has, can’t risk more than Natasha or Coulson trying to dig into his business; can’t risk Hydra finding out a new weakness. And hell yes, Steve _is_ his weakness.

Bucky’s life is the Bratva’s life and it can’t be that way now that Steve’s involved. But it is.

 

Bucky’s at Steve’s place now, sprawled out across the couch and watching Steve read through a textbook at the kitchen table. He’s bored, but almost contently so. He’s in a mood today and doesn’t want to leave or do anything that couldn’t involve staring at Steve, so he stays exactly where he’s at and focuses on the expressions Steve makes from across the room.

“Watch TV or something,” Steve mumbles without looking up. His face twists with agitation that’s directed towards the information he’s squinting at.

“Nothing’s on,” Bucky claims.

“Are you psychic now? You didn’t even check, Buck.” Steve’s been calling him that lately. He’s the only person to do so and Bucky likes it.

Bucky sighs and flops onto his back, lets his arm dangle off the edge so Cap can lick his hand. He doesn’t want to be a distraction to Steve, so he figures he should probably leave.

“You going home?”

He stretches and smiles crookedly when he spots Steve’s wide-eyed, pouty expression. Steve never knows he’s doing it, or so he claims. Bucky’s not too sure he believes him.

“I should check in.”

Steve opens his mouth, the heat in his eyes signaling a protest, but nothing comes. He simply nods instead and stares down at the text.

There are things that go through Bucky’s head sometimes, things he thinks about saying but knows he shouldn’t. And then sometimes he just can’t help himself.

“You can ask me to stay, y’know,” he suggests. “If you asked me, I would.”

Steve does ask and Bucky does stay and together they build a blanket fort in front of the TV so they can hide away inside while watching some foreign French film that Bucky doesn’t understand but sits through because Steve likes it. Besides, he gets Steve to translate and having him whisper in his ear in that strong voice for an hour is definitely not something he minds.

He learns that _embrasse-moi_ means kiss me and files that away for possible future reference.

“How would you say that in Russian?” Steve inquires. It’s not even purely flirting because he sounds so fascinated.

“Трахни меня,” he offers.

He bites his lip when Steve glances up at him, soft expression turning suspicious as Bucky clearly tries to hide his smile.

“Why do I feel like you’re lying?”

Bucky laughs. “Just say it.”

Steve looks like he’s about to be at the end of a bad joke but, ever the good sport, says it anyway. The pronunciation sounds more French than Russian and Bucky doesn’t even correct him, just positions himself over Steve in one swift movement and bends his head down to mouth at the crotch of his jeans.

Bucky can see the deep inhale in Steve’s chest, the way his small shoulders hunch up. When he spreads his fingertips across the dipped stomach, he can feel the quiver.

“What did I say?”

Bucky stretches up to plant a kiss on Steve’s lips.

“I’ll show you,” he murmurs.

And show Steve he does.

\/\/\/\/\/

“How do you know how to fix a garbage disposal?”

“How _don’t_ you?”

Steve rolls his eyes and shoves the mug of coffee into Sam’s outstretched hand.

He takes a sip of it and then turns. “I’m more than just a pretty face.”

“So you keep saying.”

“’Cause you keep forgettin’. Speaking of… you were s’posed to call me yesterday.”

“Right,” Steve breathes, curling his fingers around the edge of the table as he leans back into it. “Sorry. I just got caught up with –” _Bucky_ “– errands.”

“That’s cool,” Sam says in an all too casual way that makes Steve think something’s up. “Oh, hey. Me and Peggy were talkin’ the other day and we realized you never told us what happened with Romanov. You know, the whole Coney Island thing?”

Steve swallows. “There wasn’t anything to tell.”

“Yeah?” Sam sounds a little too pleased. “So, he’s gone?”

Steve knows where this is going to go. If he tells the truth – the _whole_ truth – then Sam will be incredibly upset and will probably drag Peggy and his father into it. Steve doesn’t like to lie, especially not to his friends, so that option is out already. The only thing he can do is leave out specifics and hope that Sam will drop it.

“We talk sometimes.”

Sam sighs, sets his wrench and mug on the counter side-by-side. “I won’t tell you to stop, it won’t do any good. Just at least lemme know you’re being smart. You’re meeting in the open, right? With other people around? And I’m assuming you gave him your number, but he doesn’t know where you live, does he?”

“Sam –” Steve tries, but that’s apparently the wrong thing to start with.

“I don’t get it. _I don’t get it_! You meet this guy and all of a sudden your common sense gets thrown out the door?” Sam opens his arms out wide. Steve crosses his. “This Romanov guy is _not_ good news, Steve!”

“Sam, if you knew him –”

“I don’t need to know him. His record’s enough. Drug possession, theft, assault – what more do you need to know?”

“I’m not about to judge him based on past offenses.”

Sam clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Past? C’mon, the guy’s still in it!”

“You have no idea what’s going on,” Steve argues.

“No, I don’t. So help me understand it.” Sam claps his hands together and keeps them clasped in front, as if he were begging. “Help me understand why you’re so set on spending time with some random thug when you know the trouble it could get you into.”

Steve scoffs. “Whatever I tell you isn’t gonna be good enough.”

“Try me,” Sam goads. “What’s so interesting about him? What’s his name? Did he even tell you that?”

“His name’s Bucky,” Steve supplies. “He’s a couple years older than me. He used to live in Brooklyn but lives in Bronx now.”

Sam shrugs. “Go on,” he demands. “Or is that all you know?”

Steve can feel his temper rising. “He’s got a sister that lives out of state.”

“Wow,” Sam chuckles. “I’m not seein’ the catch here. Can you point it out to me?”

“He doesn’t treat me like you or my parents do, for one,” he bites out. “He doesn’t think I’m weak –”

“I don’t think you’re weak!”

“He doesn’t treat me like I’m gonna break at any fucking second! He doesn’t hold back with me. He’s a good guy, Sam. And I feel right when he’s around and I just – I don’t know. I can’t explain it, okay? And I shouldn’t have to.”

“Steve,” Sam pleads quietly. Steve makes eye contact easily, a reflexive way to challenge an opponent. Sam’s a friend, but Steve’s emotions can’t recognize that now. “Here’s what I think’s goin’ on. I think this is just another way for you to test yourself. You have no illness to fight, no depression to overcome, no bullies to punch, so what’re you left with? Hangin’ out with a guy who’s life is dangerous as hell?”

Steve can’t deny Sam’s claims. He’d told Bucky something similar, after all. And maybe Steve had been attracted to that dangerous aura, but that wasn’t and isn’t all there is to it.

_If I’d known you when we were kids, I swear, we would've been attached at the hip_ , Bucky had told him one afternoon, a confession after an act of intimacy. It was becoming a regular thing.

_My full name’s James Buchanan Barnes._

_The B stands for Becky. My sister._

_You’re the only person I’ve ever been with that hasn’t had ties to the Bratva._

All of these admissions in the span of a month and they’ve barely scratched the surface.

So no, he’s not using Bucky to make his life more exciting. He’s not involved in anything Bucky does and he doesn’t _want_ to be. He just wants – he just wants _Bucky_ and dammit, he doesn’t even know why. There’s just something about him; the way he laughs and smiles and jokes. The way he touches Steve and talks to him, the way he’s so complex that Steve’s just finding out that he can peel back layers to see deeper inside Bucky and that he’s _allowed_ to, that Bucky _trusts_ and _likes_ Steve. And there’s something inside himself that just matches, that fits and feels right when they’re together.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” Steve says flatly. He pushes away from the table and backs up towards the couch, tightening his arms around his chest like a cage. He sighs. “You’re my friend –”

“I am,” Sam agrees, nodding along intensely. And then, more slowly, he shakes his head. “But I can’t support this. Your relationship with Romanov, whatever it is – and God, I don’t even wanna know. I just can’t accept this.”

“I’m sorry, but I care about him.”

“And _I’m_ sorry, but he doesn’t care about you.” Sam’s words feed Steve’s insecurities and cut straight into his heart. “If he did, he wouldn’t put you in danger.”

“He’s _not_ ,” Steve insists, his voice rising in volume. His temper’s flaring again. “You know what he said to me? He said he would keep me away of everything outside of  us – me and him. I don’t know his friends. I don’t know where he goes when we’re not together. I don’t know _anything_ and it’s for a reason. So don’t –” He has to pause to stop his voice from cracking. “ _Don’t_ tell me that Bucky doesn’t care about me. I don’t need to hear that.”

Sam looks absolutely solemn when he asks, “You’re screwing around with him, aren’t you? That’s what this is about. _Jesus_ , Steve –”

Steve lets his arms drop to his side and then he turns to stride towards his bedroom and disappear inside, the door slamming behind him. He shuts his eyes, focuses on breathing, and opens his eyes again to settle his gaze on the inhaler resting atop his nightstand. He also spots the jacket Bucky had tossed in the corner two nights ago, the last time he was in the apartment. He should remind Buck it’s there but he doesn’t initiate contact first, as a rule. Neither of them knows who might get ahold of the phone.

Steve sighs deeply and flings himself onto the bed, groaning when he hears Cap whining outside his door. Beyond that he can hear Sam rustling around, probably putting the tools away so he can leave.

But he doesn’t. He knocks on Steve’s door instead.

“We don’t walk away from each other angry,” Sam’s muffled voice reminds him. “You know the rules.”

Steve has to clear his throat before he can answer. “I’ll call you later.”

Sam chuckles. “No, you won’t. _I’ll_ call _you_.”

Steve doesn’t tell him no.

/\/\/\/\/\

 

**[October]**

Bucky doesn’t really know what happened. He supposes that going a month without Hydra breathing down his neck made him a little less cautious, but not so much that he couldn’t recognize a potential attack on him and Dum Dum in broad daylight. Yet somehow, that’s exactly what occurred.

There’s an auto shop in Queens just a block over from the police station that’s owned by Maria Hill, Fury’s right-hand woman. Bucky used to work as a part-time mechanic before she decided to shut the place down a few years back. He and Dum Dum are only headed there now because they caught wind of someone breaking into it the night before.

It’s when they’re right outside that they get ambushed. Not by two or three thugs, but by seven, and all of them Hydra.

Despite Dum Dum technically having the position known as body guard, Bucky tries to protect him as much as he can and gets beaten pretty badly in the process. But he’s done this before and soldier’s on, not ready to give up until he finds an out for both of them.

Bucky punches and kicks, uses elbows and knees and even his head a few times when it’s absolutely necessary, but he’s incredibly outnumbered. Cuts on his face sting, blows to his torso are going to bruise, and a knife comes inches away from getting dug into his thigh. Bucky thinks that he sort of recognizes the guy who tries to stab him as the one he’d left with a blade in his leg and a crowbar-sized lump on his jaw in the warehouse those few months ago. Bucky makes sure to hit that jackass extra hard.

But that’s not the only familiar face he sees because the police show up around ten minutes into the street fight and _of course_ it happens to be Sergeant Rogers that arrests him.

As if things couldn’t get worse, Steve’s hanging out at the station. It takes a lot to pretend he doesn’t know Steve, to not glance in his direction more than once so as not to alert anyone that they know each other. Steve, on the other hand, has no qualms about staring.

“I didn’t do anything,” Bucky insists. He only ever says that if it’s true.

“There are witnesses, right?” Dum Dum asks. “The people who called you? We didn’t start nothin’, just ask!”

“Everyone settle down!” Sergeant Rogers orders. His gaze flits over every cuffed guy brought in through the door but his attention eventually settles on Bucky. “You’re all going to wait right here until we get our information straight. If anyone tries anything, you’ll find yourselves getting comfy in a cell.”

Bucky watches anxiously as it all play out. There’s been a surge in street violence lately, he knows that for a fact, and the departments have been cracking down. But he’s got nothing against him this time. No drugs, no weapons. His involvement was purely self-defense.

The guy who’d drawn the knife on Bucky gets thrown into a cell, as do two more of the five Hydra thugs they managed to catch. Mercilessly, Bucky and Dum Dum are uncuffed and sent off on their way, much to the dismay of Sergeant Rogers.

Before Bucky heads out the door, and after he quells the urge to give some of the glaring cops a view of his middle finger, he shares a long look with Steve who’s been looking as anxious as Bucky had been feeling. When he does step back out into the cooling air, he tells Dum Dum to go get the car they parked down the block, giving himself a moment of peace and an opportunity for Steve to approach him if he wishes.

Steve doesn’t disappoint. Though they can’t really touch each other, they can look, and Bucky sees that Steve wants nothing more than to punch him in the jaw and then kiss him square on his bloody mouth, maybe wrap his skinny arms around Bucky’s middle and not let go for a few hours. Bucky wants nothing more than to let him.

“What happened?” Steve whispers. His voice is calm and steady despite the way his expression is twisted with obvious worry.

“Seven guys. Came outta nowhere. I’m usually good about noticing, but this was just – I fucking let my guard down and they just keep at it, you know? They just – It’s just stupid. I should’ve –”

“Bucky. Bucky, calm down,” Steve advises. “It’s not your fault. How bad are you hurt? Do you need a hospital? They should’ve asked you that already. I’m sorry.”

Steve brings his hands up to Bucky’s face unthinkingly, starts to pull back just as Bucky winces against his fingertips. Bucky knows he shouldn’t grab those hands and keep them against his aching cheeks, knows he shouldn’t kiss the warm palm covering his lips, but he can’t help it and does so anyway. It’s just all very easy with Steve.

“I’m fine,” he manages to mumble into Steve’s skin before releasing the arm to cross his own gently over his chest. “Nothing’s broken. I’ll just be sore for a while.” He tries to smirk a little, to make Steve smile, when he adds, “You’re gonna have to be real gentle with me.”

And Steve does smile, even blushes a little at the subtle innuendo.

“Bucky,” he breathes, trying to make his face look stern. “Stay out of trouble, okay? Go get some rest. Can you call or stop by so I know you’re doing alright?”

Bucky laughs a little, can’t help it. Steve’s starting to fuss and it’s kind of adorable.

“I will,” he says, half of his attention going over towards the oncoming car and the curious driver some feet away. “I promise.”

They hear footsteps and when Bucky catches sight of Steve’s dad coming into view, he shuts his eyes and leans against the wall.

“What’s going on out here?”

“Nothing,” Steve replies immediately. There’s something cold in his tone. “I’m just checking if this guy needs to go to the hospital, since no one’s asked him yet.”

Bucky opens his eyes again, keeps his face expressionless as he says, “Your son’s a real upstanding citizen, Sergeant Rogers. It’s a miracle.”

“What did I tell you, Romanov?”

“You’ve told me a lot of things, sir.”

“I told you to stay away from my son.”

Steve’s temper forces him to step in. “I’m not a damn child!”

Sergeant Rogers turns on him. “You watch your mouth when you’re talking to me, boy!”

Slipping away from the argument that no longer involves him, Bucky strides away from Steve and gets in the car, avoiding Dum Dum’s question of “ _who’s that?”_ by telling him to drive. If Dum Dum saw the picture Coulson took – which he’s still mad about – then he knows he won’t get a straight answer anyway. Not even Natasha really could and she’s the best at getting information out of anyone.

And she’s waiting for them in front of Russo’s Clinic when they get back home, expression grim to hide the underlying concern.

“Get yourself checked out,” she tells him firstly. “We need to talk.”

“I’m fine,” he grouses. “It was a trap, Natasha. Who gave you that tip? Was it Rumlow?”

“No.” Her eyes dart all around, looking for any eavesdroppers. Even though she doesn’t find any, her volume drops. “One of Orlov’s men.”

“What position?”

She glances away in thought. The realization gets painted across her face.

“Torpedo,” she breathes.

“Just like Rumlow.” Bucky shakes his head, his lip curling in disgust. “We gotta to talk to Fury.”

“Yeah,” Natasha agrees. “But first, he’s a little interested in knowing about something else. You and Steve.”

Bucky swallows, licks his lips. Natasha’s expression turns soft as he begins to shake his head.

“No. No, that’s none of his business. _Steve_ is none of his business.”

“He wouldn’t be if he was one of us. You know that.”

“No,” Bucky repeats. “Tell Fury to fuck off. He’s not getting any information about Steve.”

His arm gets grabbed by a small, deadly grip when he reaches for the handle of the clinic. His patience, like Natasha’s, is wearing thin.

“He wants to know what you’ve been telling him.”

“ _Nothing_. That’s the point. He doesn’t know _anything_ and I’m not gonna drag him into this just so Fury can hear that himself.”

“You know how he gets,” she acquiesces, but she doesn’t let up. “He just wants to be sure that your boy isn’t affiliated with Hydra.”

“I can tell you right now that he’s not,” Bucky hisses. “He doesn’t even know what Hydra _is_. I’ve never mentioned a name and he doesn’t ask.”

“Nick will appreciate that. When you tell him in person. With Steve.”

Bucky doesn’t lose his temper often, but when he does it’s not pretty. He slams his fist against the plexiglas of the clinic door, right near Natasha’s head, making her flinch and clench her jaw.

“How’d you think this was gonna play out?” Her tone is dangerous, warning him not to get pissy with her. “There’s a reason we stick within our circle. There’s a reason we _have to_. If you don’t want him involved, then cut ties, but that won’t change Fury’s demands. Before he takes you seriously and looks into Rumlow, he’ll want to know what you’re hiding, and that just so happens to be your boyfriend.”

_He’s not my boyfriend_ , Bucky wants to say. But he is, isn’t he? They go out together, have fun; build blanket forts and share food and go to the park to play with Steve’s dog. They kiss and fuck like their lives depend on it and maybe Bucky’s a little stupid about Steve, but he just can’t help it. That little punk is like the goddamn sun and Bucky’s been in the cold for so long…

“I’m in a lot of pain right now,” he says by way of answer.

Natasha breathes in deeply and nods. “We’ll talk later.”

“I’m busy later.”

Her tight smile is one part disbelieving and one part annoyed.

“If you asked him to meet with Fury, I bet he would.”

Bucky can’t do that. He won’t. He’s keeping Steve out of this part of his life and that’s the way it needs to stay. Too bad he’s beginning to feel the walls closing in around him.

\/\/\/\/\/

It’s hot in Steve’s room and quiet now that he and Bucky are. The window’s open, letting the soft breeze carry the racket of the nighttime street into the little bubble they’d created and maintained for the past hour. The honking of a horn nearby brings Steve back, reminds him that things exist outside of Bucky and all the ways he makes him feel.

And Bucky makes Steve feel _a lot_.

The weight of Bucky’s body lifts off him, slick skin unsticking. Bucky pulls out and rubs a hot palm against the ridges of Steve’s spine. He lifts himself onto wobbly arms and rolls to his back, twisting the sheets with him, and then Bucky’s on top of him again as soon as he’s settled, radiating warmth and safety. Steve even cracks an eye open just to see which expression Bucky wears as he stares down at him. It’s a tender one.

“You good?”

Steve yawns and nods. “I’m good.”

The bed shifts again as Bucky stands and pads into the bathroom to dispose of the condom and wash Steve’s cum off his stomach. Steve takes this moment of solitude to sit himself up and stretch. The clock on his nightstand tells him it’s almost midnight.

When Bucky reemerges from the bathroom, it’s with a clean washcloth in hand, prompting Steve to cross his arms and stare blankly (though it’s hard, considering all of Bucky is on display to stare at). Despite his aversion to being taken care of, he sits still and lets Bucky press the cool cloth against his face and neck.

_“You get all flushed after,”_ he’d explained the first time he’d tried to help cool Steve off. _“Stop pretending you don’t like my attention.”_

And yeah, okay, maybe Steve likes having Bucky’s attention. But really, who wouldn’t?

“I should be doing that. You’re the one who’s all banged up.”

The cooling washcloth trails over the blooming marks down Steve’s chest and stomach, stopping at the sheet draped across his lap.

“Yeah, but now we match.”

“Mine aren’t painful.”

The bruises sucked into Steve’s skin are small and tingly, nothing like the dark, rough-looking ones Bucky possesses. Those were made from anger and violence. Steve’s were a result of something sweet and sensual.

“I’m doing alright,” Bucky promises.

Steve takes a moment to just look, pulls him in for a slow and lazy kiss, one that Steve doesn’t want to end. He wants Bucky to stay the night, but they haven’t done that yet, haven’t gotten to that level – or if they have, neither of them has brought it up for discussion. They haven’t slept next to each other for longer than a 10 minute nap; they haven’t woken up next to each other, tangled and cranky in the early morning hour. Steve wants that, he just doesn’t know if Bucky does. The only way to find out is by asking.

“Hey, Buck? Remember when you said that if I asked you to stay, you would?”

“Did I say that?” Bucky teases, dropping the cloth so he can brush Steve’s bangs back instead.

Steve bites Bucky’s wrist and smirks when he gets cursed at.

“You did, jerk.”

“Okay, so what about it?”

Steve’s pretty sure Bucky knows what he’s getting at and is simply choosing to be a little shit.

“Stay the night.”

Bucky leans back a little to gaze at Steve with brows raised high above his sleepy eyes.

“That doesn’t sound like you’re asking.”

Steve huffs. “Will you stay? It’s already after midnight and you’re tired –”

“You think you need to convince me? Come on, Steve.” Bucky leans against him and sprawls his legs out behind, stretching across the bed with his head on Steve’s shoulder. “But you better be careful,” he murmurs into pale skin. “You ask me to stay once, I might not ever leave.”

Steve smiles to himself. “I might not ever let you.”

At that, Bucky hums with excited interest. “You gonna make me your sex slave, Stevie?”

“Shut up,” he laughs, jabbing Bucky in the ribs hard enough to make him hiss and recoil.

“Shit, your elbows are bony.” Bucky grabs Steve’s thin arms and pins them easily, especially since Steve doesn’t put up a fight. “Okay, new plan,” he decides. “You’re _my_ sex slave, that way I have a legitimate reason to tie you down.”

“Bony elbows aren’t legitimate enough?”

“Not for me.”

His grin doesn’t disappear as he holds Steve down and kisses him. In fact, it widens when Steve starts smiling back, their teeth clacking and their noses scrunching the whole time.

 

Steve wakes up and the first thing he notices is that he’s engulfed by a larger, very warm body, one of which happens to be snuffling against his hair. The next thing he notices, when he manages to squirm away enough to see the clock, is that it’s 6am.

He starts to pull himself away from the comfort of Bucky’s arms, ready to start this day like any other, and is immediately gripped tight and moaned at.

“Bucky,” he whispers. The peaceful expression twitches in response. “Bucky, I’m getting up.”

“What time s’it?”

“Six.”

Bucky makes a sound of disgust and curls himself around Steve. “Fuck off. Go back to sleep.”

“Well, I can’t do both.”

Steve’s sass gets Bucky’s eyes to open. They’re more gray than blue in the early morning, shadowed and filled with sleep. If Steve’s not careful, he’ll get lost looking into those mysterious depths. If Steve’s not careful, he’ll want to.

“Go back to sleep, Steve. I’m begging you.”

“I’m not kicking you out. You can stay as long as you want, but I need –”

“You have class today?” Bucky murmurs groggily.

“No, it’s Sunday.”

“Then you’ve got some extra time. Settle down, sunshine.”

It’s very tempting to give in to Bucky’s wishes, but Steve needs to at least make sure Cap’s got his food, particularly since he’s feeling guilty about locking the poor dog out of the bedroom. Anything else can wait a few more hours.

“Five minutes.”

Bucky sighs and loosens his hold, allowing Steve to sit up and scan the clothes scattered across the floor. The briefs from last night get slid up his hips.

“God forbid your dog sees you naked,” Bucky grumbles into his pillow. Steve’s starting to get the picture that the guy in his bed is not a morning person. “How do you wear those anyway? Fuckin’ tight as hell. I mean, you’ve got a small ass, but your dick –”

Blushing, Steve smacks a pillow against Bucky’s head, effectively cutting off the rest of that sentence. He gets laughed at on his way out the door.

Cap is more pleased with Steve once he gets a helping of food and a good belly rub and even sits by his feet when he takes a moment to check his emails. There are messages from his professors and emails about a local art exhibit and a note from his mom about the child of one of her coworkers who wants a print from him.

Checking up on the exhibit gets him curiously looking at an Art Institute in the area. He thinks about skipping out of criminalistics like his mother suggested and is engrossed in that thought until a semi-dressed, cranky Bucky comes out of the bedroom and steals his attention.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Steve comments, unable to keep the amusement out of his tone.

Bucky glares. “Couldn’t. You took too long and now I’m up before the sun, so thanks. Why do I put up with you?”

Steve rolls his eyes and shuts his laptop. “Let’s not question it,” he says as he stands to stretch. “Do you need a pain pill? Maybe some food?”

“You gonna cook for me?”

“Sure. I make some pretty good toast.”

That at least gets Bucky to crack a sluggish smile. “So you can’t cook, you’re a stubborn smartass, and you tell stupid jokes.” He clicks his tongue. “Your list of flaws is growing, pal.”

“You like my jokes. And you’re not so perfect either,” Steve states as Bucky stops in front of him. He tries to look him in the eyes but can’t seem to keep his gaze off the lips that are inches from his, certainly not when Bucky’s fingers tickle the nape of his neck and grip the shorter hairs there.

“And somehow you’re still interested.”

He brushes his lips just barely against Steve’s, lingering for several seconds until he moves into the kitchen to rummage around.

It’s the image of Bucky in a t-shirt and boxers, standing in his kitchen, making waffles at 6:30 in the morning that spurs Steve’s thoughts and emotions into overdrive. He’s learned things about Bucky in the rather short time they’ve started… whatever it is they’ve been doing, whatever it is they are.

Steve knows how Bucky likes to be touched, what makes him laugh, when to pry and when to back off. He knows that Bucky loves Coney Island because he spent a lot of time there as a child; that he likes pepperoni pizza and action movies that aren’t mindless; that he’ll sit through a film he can’t understand because Steve wants to see it; that he takes excellent care of a car that isn’t even his because he likes it so much; that he dotes on Cap like the Labrador Retriever is his baby; that he’s not afraid to push boundaries with Steve so they can understand each other as best as they can.

Steve knows that Bucky is protective and loyal and angry and sad and bright.

And Steve knows that Bucky likes him for who and how he is and that the longer they spend together, slowly discovering pieces of who they are, together and apart, the more Bucky seems to want to stick around. Now Steve’s starting to understand what he feels, why he can’t let Bucky go and what that means and he’s not sure what to do with it.

Well, Steve’s a lot of things, but coward isn’t one of them.

“I should probably tell you something, so we’re clear,” Steve says finally. He fills two glasses with milk and sets them on the table near the plate of stacked waffles Bucky so graciously made for them.

“Okay. Go ahead,” Bucky encourages. Because though they don’t tell each other everything, what with all the secrets kept on Bucky’s end, they’re always honest with what they choose to reveal.

“I think you’re –” _Great, compelling, incredible “–_ beautiful.” _Oh, crap_.

Bucky looks at him with wide eyes, clearly unsure of how to respond.

“I mean…” Steve tries to backtrack.

“Artistically?”

Steve winces, but he wasn’t wrong with his word choice. Of course he thinks Bucky’s beautiful. Trying to explain it is just difficult.

“You’re obviously good looking, but you’re great person, too, and I know you don’t always see that. But every time I learn something new about you, it’s another puzzle piece that helps me get closer to seeing the whole picture.”

He alternates between looking at Bucky and looking past him, twirling his fork like a pencil as the words spill out.

“It’s been, what, four months? But it feels like I’ve known you for years, like you’ve been there this whole time, right with Sam and Peggy. Maybe that’s just ‘cause I think you belong there. And I’m trying to say that beyond the fun and comfort and great sex –” Bucky chuckles and it sounds almost giddy. Steve has to laugh a little, too. “Beyond that, I care. And not just about your well-being, I care about _you_. As a person. As a friend. As…”

He’s not really sure how to finish that thought.

Out of every reaction Steve could’ve imagined Bucky having, his cheeks and neck turning red was not one of them.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable –”

“No, you’re not. _I’m_ not.” Bucky’s response is quick. His eyes dart around the room before settling on Steve’s face. It seems as if Bucky’s struggling with something. “I’m – Steve, I’m trying so hard to keep things locked inside and then you say shit like that and I know I can’t. ”

“Bucky, you can tell me anything. You know that, right? You don’t _have_ to, I don’t want you to feel like you do, but we can trust each other.”

Bucky seems to consider this for only a moment before he’s nodding to himself, understanding and accepting Steve’s words.

“Remember when I said Natasha knows about you? Well, she’s not the only one. Fury – our boss? He does, too.”

Steve knows enough by now to know that _that’s_ probably not a good thing.

“So, what? He wants you to kill me and bury me in a ditch somewhere?”

Bucky lets out a whoosh of air. “That’s not funny,” he gripes. “And no. Might be worse, actually.”

Steve’s eyes widen a little. “Worse how?”

Bucky looks very grave as he says, “He wants to meet you.”

And Steve doesn’t mean to laugh, but he just can’t help it. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes. “I just thought – I mean, why’s that so bad? Seems a lot better than what I’d guessed.”

“He’s a fucking scary bastard, Steve!” Bucky declares, like that’s something he should just inherently know. “He’s tall and he’s always wearing this sweeper coat and he’s missing an eye so he’s got an eye patch. Nick Fury is the embodiment of intimidation, that’s why he took over the Bratva when Natasha’s dad died. He was the only one cut out for it.”

“Are any of you actually Romanov’s?” Steve asks suddenly. He knows Bucky isn’t, but what about the rest of the Bratva?

Bucky gives Steve an impatient look; his nose is scrunched and his lips are drawn in, smaller and pursed, and his eyes say something like _why aren’t you listening, this is important!_

“Just Natasha,” Bucky answers after a beat. “She could take over if she wants but she doesn’t – and that’s not the point.”

Steve’s stomach starts to really grumble, so he picks up the fork and takes about of the still-warm waffle as he asks, “So what is?”

“Fury,” Bucky prompts. “Natasha says there’s no way around it, but there always is. I’ll just –”

“I’ll meet him,” Steve interrupts, not even feigning his nonchalance. He knows that this is a big deal, even if he can’t quite grasp how big. Bucky had already told Steve that he’s the only person he’s been with that hasn’t been tied to the Bratva, so of course the guy running the whole thing would want to know what’s up. If Steve were in Fury’s position – and it’s a laughable thought, really – he’d want to know who his people are associating with.

“This isn’t some meet-the-parents shit, Steve.”

Steve lifts a brow. “So I shouldn’t tell Fury it’s an honor to meet him?”

“ _No_.” Bucky looks mortified.

“Well, good. I don’t make a habit of lying.”

Bucky sighs. Steve watches him as he eats his waffle and gets watched intently in return.

“Fury’s got the idea that you might be part of this group that keeps ambushing us. And he thinks I’m telling you things that would get back to that group, like you’re some sort of informant.”

“I’m assuming you told him I’m not?”

“Natasha’s been trying to work him over,” Bucky affirms. Then he snorts. “We’ve all got trust issues, have to when we live how we do, but this guy is just… Natasha’s the closest thing to family he’s got and because she has history with me he thinks she’s compromised.”

Ah. History. So Bucky and Natasha more than likely had some sort of romantic relationship at some point. Steve wants to ask about it, but he figures now is not the best time.

Instead, he questions, “Does he have a specific problem with you?” and it makes Bucky tense.

“Sort of,” he murmurs. He takes a long swig of milk.

Steve’s noticed that Bucky, more than anyone he’s ever met, doesn’t like discussing his past. And it’s less like he _can’t_ because of the Bratva and more like he _won’t_ due to his own discomfort. Steve gets it, he doesn’t exactly like to open up about his own issues, like being bullied or downed by bad health or his destructive behavior or the depression that followed. But Steve’s got people who know, who he can talk about it with, and it seems as if Bucky just keeps it all in.

Steve can see the internal debate flash across Bucky’s usually soft features and can spot the moment he seems to settle into something close to resignation.

“There was something that happened a few years back,” Bucky explains vaguely. “Fury’s been wary of everything, especially me, since.”

Steve’s brows furrow. “Does he think you betrayed him?”

Bucky keeps his eyes on his full plate as he speaks. “Guess you should know, ‘fore you go in there.” Steve waits patiently and with baited breath as Bucky swallows and starts biting at his fingernails, trusting him enough to open up about something that’s clearly important. “Hydra’s been around for a long time, but they were setting up shop in our territory. I was 18, been with the Bratva for a few years already, and Fury had kind of promoted me, so he gave me an actual mission.

“A lot of our newer members were being recruited by Hydra and we couldn’t figure out why – if they were all just defecting or if they were being coerced somehow. So he sent me undercover. I followed the last guy to switch sides, Max, and I pretended that I was going with him. Things…” He laughs, short and shaky. “I fucked up. Got too close, too involved. Max was the first guy I fucked around with and I don’t even know why. There wasn’t anything special about him, I didn’t like him all that much, but I was a kid and I was _scared_ and he was familiar –

“He got in trouble with the big guys and everyone knew what that meant. Nothing good, you know? And there was this _sick fuck_ , Zola.” Steve nearly flinches at the way Bucky spits out those words. “I think he got off on torturing the people who disobeyed. So he took Max away and we all resigned ourselves to never seeing him again and I was ready to get the hell out of there. But Max… he knew somehow that I was faking and he told Zola, to get himself back into Hydra’s good graces.”

Steve feels the dread of what he’s about to hear next.

“I don’t know what happened. They took me and they – they did things. It _hurt_ so bad…”

“Bucky,” Steve whispers. Bucky looks up with tears in his eyes and the will to fight them as clear as day.

“But he wouldn’t kill me. He wouldn’t, I don’t know why. So Natasha got me out,” he continues. He looks Steve square in the eye when he adds, “I had a thing with her for a while. It was the first, and I swore, the last time I felt deep for anyone. Until you came along.”

There’s a tentative smile that Steve does not hesitate to return, the warmth blooming through his constricted chest not allowing anything less than sincerity for Bucky.

“I struggled for a while after. So, he, uh, hasn’t trusted me much since.”

Something in Steve flares up at that, raises his hackles and makes him want to yell.

“That’s not fair,” he insists angrily. “ _None_ of that was your fault.”

“Some of it was.”

“You were _eighteen_ , Bucky. How could he send you out there like that? How could he –”

“It’s done,” Bucky interjects, desperate to stop talking about it. “I wanted you to know, in case Fury brings it up. And I – I guess I just… wanted you to know.”

He sounds surprised by his own admission. Steve reaches across the table to grab Bucky’s left hand at the wrist, rubbing his thumb over the delicate lines inked there.

“Thank you, Buck,” he says softly.

Bucky’s head tilts in confusion and his eyes dart down to the warm hand covering his.

“I just unloaded my problems on you and you’re thanking me? Why?”

“Because you trust me with the truth,” he answers. And then, maybe a little more shyly, “I’m really proud of you.”

There’s a sound that filters through the air, part desperate and part surprised and part relieved. It comes from Bucky and it slips through Steve’s skin, settles deep inside his bones just before he leans over the table, grabs Steve by his hair, and yanks him far forward.

The set of their lips together is hard and hot, but there’s a delicacy to it and it suits Bucky well. Suits both of them, really, and that sets Steve’s insides aflame.

He scrambles up onto the table, not caring that his knee sinks into a syrupy waffle and loving the wide-eyed surprise on Bucky’s face as much as the high-pitched moan that falls from pouted lips those few seconds they aren’t blanketing Steve’s.

“Shit, _Steve_. You’re gonna break the table.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve murmurs hastily, trying his best to settle and pull Bucky over himself at the same time. Steve’s usually very good about being tactful, but he’s got a mean spontaneous streak that is just dying to be noticed by Bucky, it appears.

“You’re getting food all over yourself,” he tries, though there’s no attempt to get away from Steve’s surprisingly tight hold. He braces himself, in fact, looms over Steve like he does so perfectly. “Where’re your table manners, punk?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Steve counters. He wraps his sticky legs around Bucky’s waist and draws him in, barely registering the fact that his hair is now damp with spilled milk.

“Fucking on your table is an adventure, huh?” It’s said lowly and with a smirk against Steve’s chin, punctuated by a dirty, slow roll of hips, coaxing barely concealed cocks into the beginnings of hardness.

“Hey, this is exciting and potentially hazardous. I’m pretty sure that’s in the definition of adventure.”

“I didn’t even get to eat my waffle,” Bucky breathes, which makes Steve laugh but the way lips brush against the inked wing on his body also makes him shiver.

“From what I tasted, it was very good. I’m sorry you missed out.” But Steve isn’t sorry at all and Bucky’s mournful eyes are quickly turning dark and playful. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

Bucky cackles and rolls his hip again, noses bumping when Steve jerks up.

“That’s a long time to work on an empty stomach. Better make it worth my while.”

“I will if you let me.”

Steve’s words are quieter, more sincere, and Bucky picks up on it. He’s not just talking about sex, he’s talking about _everything_. Steve will make it all worth Bucky’s while if he just _lets him_.

The vulnerable tenderness in Bucky’s eyes is heart wrenching and warming, and when Bucky twists his arm so he can twine their fingers together, Steve knows that Sam must be wrong for the first time in his life because Bucky _does_ care about Steve. It couldn’t be plainer than it is right now, when Bucky’s choosing transparency over masks, when he's looking at Steve like he'd give him the world if he could. Steve doesn't want the world; he just wants Bucky.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky moans, deep and low and drawn out. He says it like a beginning, like there’s more to be said that he can’t quite form into words.

Steve’s right there with him, chanting, “Bucky, Bucky, _Buck._ ”

And as Steve wiggles farther down the table with cold, soggy food digging into his back, and as he slides Bucky’s boxers down his thighs, with lips sucking steadily into sensitive skin, Steve knows he’s completely taken with Bucky.

/\/\/\/\/\

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sam is trying to be a good bro. bucky and steve are out of control. nick fury wants to know what's going on.
> 
> (thank you for any and all feedback. i greatly appreciate it. <3)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he wants to do is call Steve, to rush over to that warm Brooklyn apartment and bury himself under blankets and pillows to cocoon themselves together. But he can’ do that. Steve’s got friends over, Bucky knows; they’d talked about it before. Steve always spends Halloween with Sam and Peggy and Sharon, watching scary movies and eating enough candy to make them hyper and then sick. He’d invited Bucky along eagerly, though both of them knew the answer before all the words were even hanging in the air.

Holidays are celebrated by the Bratva just like they are by any other family – if every other family got drunk or shot up or screwed around with each other. It’s Halloween and the talk around the building is about Natasha and Barton aiming to do something about their long-withstanding sexual tension. Bucky supposes dressing up like someone else or hiding your face is one way to feel courageous. He’d been like that once, too.

 _Once_. Not anymore.

He’s not dressed up this year, though he’s still being dragged to the festivities. There are several happenings going on, one of which is a party in the back room of Delphic, a club owned by Tori’s husband.

He heads to the back with Dum Dum, diligently and only slightly strained, ignoring all of the problematic substances making their rounds. They climb up to the roof above the third floor where most of their own are settling, dancing to quieter music and passing around vodka.

“Hey,” some of the security greet when he and Dum Dum enter their circle to join in on the poker game.

Bucky is good at it, holds his cards with ease and confidence but never lets his face betray his hand, good or bad. He’d gotten better after being subjected to Zola’s games, after learning just how much a blank mask could save, giving him a few more hours of life. It’s a skill he hasn’t had to use in a while, not with Steve around, but it’s perfect for poker and is what wins him a pile of money.

“How ‘bout strip poker, boys?” Tori asks as she strides forward, wriggling her brows. One hand holds a tall bottle and the other wraps around the bicep of her husband. “Haven’t seen Bucky naked in a _long_ time.”

Bucky snorts, starts shuffling the cards when they’re handed to him.

“Forget naked,” one of the guys in the small group says. “We haven’t seen Bucky, _period_.”

“He’s got himself a honey,” Dum Dum offers with a grin. It makes Bucky slip up a little, having to lurch to catch the cards that almost shoot out of his hands. Everyone laughs.

“Oh, does he?”

Bucky grunts and starts tossing out the cards, forcing himself to scoot over so Tori can sit by his side. She offers him her vodka and he accepts a swig.

“You mean he’s kept someone for more than a week?”

He chooses to ignore the bitterness in Tori’s voice and hopes her guy ignores it, too. He’d been with her for a week after he split with Natasha. He’d made it clear he didn’t want anything more, but she had hoped – or so she said. And despite moving on, she’s still sore about it.

Dum Dum is clueless. “Oh, yeah,” he says with enthusiasm. “He’s been hanging around this kid for months.”

“He’s not a kid,” Bucky grumbles before he can help himself, cursing the fact that Steve’s voice is the one that echoes through his head.

“ _He?_ ”

Bucky glares at that and the man instantly recoils. They don’t call him Winter for nothing.

“Yeah, _he._ And I’m not talking about my personal life, got it?”

“Sure, sure.”

Dum Dum laughs, never one to be hurt by Bucky’s venom, and the grin he gets shows how happy his friend is for him.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to talk about Steve, he could talk about him all night, honestly. He just isn’t comfortable with giving out information to people he doesn’t trust, no matter if they’re in the Bratva or not. 

“I get to meet ‘im soon, right?” Dum Dum whispers into Bucky’s ear when everyone’s refocused on their cards.

“Maybe,” Bucky doesn’t promise. After all, if Steve really is going to meet with Fury, Bucky can’t stop Dum Dum or Natasha or Barton or Coulson from tagging along.

 

They play cards for a while, with Bucky getting steadily drunker but no more relaxed as the night progresses. The group on the roof eventually heads down to the third floor, the VIP lounge, and it’s when they’re stumbling around the barely-lit space, with people shooting up and grinding, that Bucky realizes how sick it all makes him. All of these idiots _choosing_ to get high on things they have no idea what could do to them, risking addiction or death for only a few hours of fun.

And these people keep offering him some, as if he’d want it after everything. They don’t know, of course; very few people do. But he can’t ever seem to escape it. He has nightmares when he sleeps and craves when he’s awake, but it feels like it’s been a long time since he had any sort of freak out and he wants to keep it that way.

Natasha would kick his ass if she knew he hesitated on that last offer.

All he wants to do is call Steve, to rush over to that warm Brooklyn apartment and bury himself under blankets and pillows to cocoon themselves together. But he can’ do that. Steve’s got friends over, Bucky knows; they’d talked about it before. Steve always spends Halloween with Sam and Peggy and Sharon, watching scary movies and eating enough candy to make them hyper and then sick. He’d invited Bucky along eagerly, though both of them knew the answer before all the words were even hanging in the air.

“ _Nah_ ,” he’d declined. “ _Have a good time with your friends._ ”

The truth is... Bucky doesn’t _want_ to meet Steve’s friends. He doesn’t want to see the disappointment in their eyes, doesn’t want to hear the unsaid whispers of ‘ _he’s not good enough for you_ ’ because he already knows it. He doesn’t want to meet these people because being in the same room as them might be what finally wises Steve up, what makes him realize that Bucky isn’t worth anything after all. And shit, Bucky wouldn’t be able to handle that, not now, maybe not ever.

Despite it all, Steve’s voice is what he needs right now and he’s pathetic enough to dial that number.

It rings for a while before Steve’s cheery voice answers quietly on the other end.

“You’re lucky we’re not watching Halloween yet,” he says lowly, a smile evident in his voice.

Bucky laughs a little, but Steve, damn him, knows by now when he’s not being completely sincere.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” It’s instinct. He clears his throat, turns to press himself against the side of the building and sighs. “I just get sick of it sometimes,” he breathes. “These people and their fucking lives. Mine. Also, I think I’m a little drunk.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment, only his soft exhale being heard, and when he does speak, it’s soothing.

“Come over.”

He huffs and presses his head harder into the brick. “No.”

“You don’t have to come up,” Steve tries. “I’ll meet you out front. Just come see me.”

“Steve,” Bucky whines. He feels like his knees might give out and he really doesn’t want to sit in the dirty alleyway.

“Take a cab,” Steve insists calmly. “I’ll call you one. Where are you?”

“Steve, I’m fine. I only wanted to hear your voice.”

“Well, that’s not good enough for me. Come on. I’ll share my candy corn with you.”

Bucky can imagine the dorky grin on Steve’s face. The mental image makes him smile.

“Candy corn, huh? Sounds better than the schnapps someone tried to give me.”

Bucky can hear Steve’s hum in his ear and he wishes he could feel it.

“Hey, I miss you.”

Bucky laughs, a bit startled. “Fuck off,” he tries to tease. “You’re only saying that to get your way.”

“Maybe. But I mean it, too. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Miss me?” Steve’s voice sounds suddenly small and somehow gruff, like he’s forcing himself to say the words he’s thinking.

Bucky sighs and shuts his eyes, admits, “I do. I always do. Always want you around, punk.”

“Where are you?” Steve practically whispers.

Bucky doesn’t know why he hasn’t already told Steve.

 

He means to stay out front, he really does, but when Steve’s thin arms wrap vice-like around his body and start tugging him very easily into the building with the manipulative excuse of _I’m cold_ , Bucky finds himself face-to-face with two pretty young women and a sharp looking man.

“This is Bucky,” Steve tells his friends and, _fuck,_ his eyes are shining like the goddamn stars, like Bucky is worth that sort of look. “Buck, these are my friends, Sam, Peggy, and Sharon.”

He’s met with varying stares and three different greetings of _hello, hi,_ and _hey, man._ In reply, the hand that isn’t squeezing Steve’s to death gets raised in a small, awkward wave.

“We’ve heard a bit about you,” the one called Peggy says coolly with her posh accent. “You’re something of a secret around here, though Steve can’t stop himself from gushing every once in a while.”

Steve, who is all smiles and perhaps a bit pinker than before, snorts. “I thought we talked about not embarrassing me.”

“Yeah, and we decided we aren’t miracle workers.” That one is said by Sam. He holds his hand out for Bucky to shake after a moment of observation. Bucky hopes his grip isn’t too loose or too tight. “S’nice to finally put a face to that name.”

“You too,” he agrees. A nod is all he gets in return, so Peggy jumps in again.

“Are you joining us? We’re about to start Halloween. It’s Steve’s favorite.”

Bucky, whose mouth feels very dry, goes to speak, but Steve intervenes.

“Bucky’s not feeling so well. He’s gonna lay down for a while.”

“We should all go out to lunch sometime, get to know each other,” Sharon suggests just as Steve starts pushing Bucky towards his bedroom.

“Okay, sure,” he mumbles dumbly. Then, “Not so fast, sunshine. I was promised candy corn.”

Steve stops his very insistent pushing so he can grab a nearly empty plastic container and shove it into Bucky’s hands, prompting him to keep moving, the stares of the others burning holes into their backs. He breathes a little easier when the door gets shut firmly behind them.

“You said I could stay out front,” he reminds Steve. A handful of candy is shoved into his mouth.

“Thought it’d be better if you took it easy up here.”

Bucky hums and eats another handful, going slack when Steve bends down to unlace his boots. “Your friends don’t like me.”

Steve glances up, a furrow in his brows. “They will. They just need to get to know you, see what I see.”

“And what do you see?”

The smile Steve gives him is so soft and warm, Bucky wants to taste it. Somehow, he refrains from doing so.

“They’re unsure,” he continues on, not letting Steve answer his question, if he was even going to. “Which means they’re smart. Unlike you, stupid.”

“I’m not stupid. _You’re_ stupid.”

Bucky laughs and lets his leg drop when the other is lifted. “Only for you.”

Steve chuckles. “That’s the best kind of stupid, I think.”

Bucky drops to his back when the left boot hits the floor, makes a noise of protest when Steve tries to shove him farther up the bed. Through the door, he can he muffled laughter while the cracked window allows delighted screams from children to flit through the air.

“We can wait to watch the movie,” Steve offers. “You can sleep for an hour and then join us. They won’t mind.”

Just like before, Bucky declines. And then sighs. “Look… thanks for letting me come here. Sometimes it gets – there was so much.”

Bucky blinks slowly, sees the way Steve’s expression shifts, like he wants to ask but doesn’t want to pry. Bucky’s drunk enough to blab a little but sober enough to know the consequences. Still, he doesn’t really have a choice.

“People use any excuse to get fucked up.”

“Are you…”

Bucky snuffs. “No, just too much vodka.” He watches Steve as carefully as he can in his hazy state. “Would you be mad? If I came here with track marks?”

He knows he’s putting Steve in an awkward position and maybe he’s doing it on purpose, just to see how close he is to being thrown out. He wants to know just how much Steve can take, how much he can understand about Bucky without direct words, specifics. And will Steve continue to stick around when his life is shared between them?

“I would be… upset,” Steve concludes, expression pinched and voice breathy. “I’d be worried. And I’d want to help you.”

“Well, you don’t need to. I got help when it was a problem. I’m just waiting for the day when it never even crosses my mind.”

“Buck –”

“I never wanted it,” he nearly whimpers. “I didn’t choose it and I spent years tryin’ to stop. And then there’re people who do it for fun and I –”

He clears his throat, angry that he’s drunk and upset and staring up at Steve with what must look like childish fear. He doesn’t even realize that he’s clinging to a thin, pale wrist until Steve pulls away so they can clutch hands instead.

“Listen to me.” It’s said clearly and with intent. “You’re so strong and brave. I’d be jealous if I didn’t like you so much.”

“Please –” Bucky tries to argue, but Steve’s hand tightens almost painfully over his.

“You’ve got problems, I get it, but they can’t define you if you don’t let them. And you don’t.” Steve shifts on the bed, leans across Bucky’s chest so he can stare him straight in the eye. “I think you’re telling me that Zola torturing you left lasting effects you actively tried to overcome and I think you’re telling me that you’re ashamed. I know what shame’s like and I know how hard it is to push away, but you have to. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. You’ve heard that before, right? All the pieces have their own meaning, but you as a _whole_ , that’s what’s important. And you as a whole is pretty damn great, Bucky.”

There are tears rolling down towards Bucky’s temples, though there’s an odd feeling of calm washing over him. Steve is small against his chest, but he’s warm and sturdy, and his eyes keep him captured.

“I think my mom wanted someone like you,” he admits in a broken whisper, nodding along to the words that are the hardest to say. “My ma deserved a son like you, Steve.”

Steve shakes his head and strokes a thumb over Bucky’s cheek, making his eyes flutter.

“Is she…”

“Alive and well. In DC with my sister.” He reaches up blindly to touch Steve’s soft hair. “I was such an ass, they moved to get away from me.”

“Bucky, stop. That’s not true.”

“Feels like it.” Bucky winces. “Fuck, I need to stop talking.”

“Talk as much as you want, Buck. I’ll listen to whatever you have to say. Always.”

Bucky’s crying again but they aren’t silent tears this time. He tries not to sob too hard, all too aware of the people outside the door, and is grateful when Steve leans down farther to offer his shoulder as a way to muffle the hiccupping sounds.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… go spend time with your friends, okay? Dum Dum says I get weepy when I drink. I’m starting to think he’s right.”

Steve fusses over Bucky for another moment, brushes his hair back and pulls up the comforter before opening the door and calling for Cap. Bucky hears the dog’s nails clicking across the floor wildly before he feels him pounce onto the bed, wet nose twitching against Bucky’s splotchy cheek.

Steve moves back over towards him, kisses him soft and slow with the door wide open, uncaring that his friends are watching. Bucky feels instantly drowsy.

“Steve…” It’s nothing more than a breath as he starts drifting into sleep. “You’re so… so important. To me. You gotta know…”

He thinks he hears Steve murmur something, but he’s already too far under to comprehend.

 

He wakes up with a headache and a furry friend pressed into his side. The clock on the bedside table alerts him that it’s past 6am on November 1st, meaning he’s slept for close to eight hours. Not so bad.

The humiliation of his behavior is just about to hit when Steve steps through the doorway holding a bowl of something. The smile he has for Bucky sets his heart aflutter.

“Your name must be Lucky Charms because you’re magically delicious.”

Bucky scrubs a hand over his face but it doesn’t hide his amusement.

“I don’t know where you get your lines, pal, but…”

“They’re good, right?” Steve teases. “Here.”

Bucky takes the bowl carefully and laughs despite the pounding it causes in his head.

“Actual Lucky Charms. God, you’re just –” He shakes his head and grabs for Steve, leaving a smacking kiss against the corner of his sweet, pink mouth.

“Eat,” Steve demands. He looks exceptionally handsome this morning and Bucky can’t pinpoint exactly why.

He spoons the cereal into his mouth and watches Steve move around the room, shooing Cap out and then settling near the dresser to add a pile of folded clothes into the drawers. When Bucky tries to apologize again, mostly for unloading his shit all over the place when Steve was trying to hang out with his friends, Steve very sternly tells him to knock it off.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he says hotly, hands on his hips like he’s waiting for Bucky to argue.

Bucky can only smile and attempt to keep the milk from dribbling down his chin.

“We’re going to the park later,” Steve tells him, no room for discussion. He usually asks if Bucky has plans, but not now. Steve is the boss today and Bucky doesn’t mind a bit. He’s pretty sure he needs this more than a lecture from Natasha.

After Bucky’s finished eating, he gets up and starts to strip for a shower on Steve’s insistence, glad that the clothes he’ll have to put back on are still pretty clean.

“Did you watch your movie?” he calls from the bathroom, raising his voice just enough to be heard from the warming water streaming.

“Yep,” Steve calls back. “Sam was disappointed he couldn’t interrogate you.”

Bucky snorts and steps under the stream. “You sleep on the couch?”

“Cap wouldn’t leave your side.”

Steve’s voice is closer now, in the bathroom with Bucky. He peeks out the shower curtain to see Steve completely focused on tearing open the package of a spare toothbrush. Bucky finds it incredibly endearing.

“Steve?”

He turns around on Bucky’s prompt, expression morphing from adorable confusion to something like blank expectation when Bucky’s fingers curl in and out, beckoning him forward. Steve looks as if he knows what’s coming but is good enough to follow anyway. And when he gets in range, Bucky’s arm snakes around his waist and pulls, hauling him into the tub and under the spray to get soaked and smothered in kisses, Steve’s halfhearted protests quickly turning into puffed out moans under Bucky’s ministrations.

\/\/\/\/\/

“You’re late,” his mother informs him as soon as he’s in her line of sight.

Steve gulps and plops down in front of her, dropping his bag to the floor as he reaches out to take the pudding cup he’s being offered.

“Sorry, I was at the park with Cap.” _And Bucky_ , he doesn’t say because his mother has no idea who Bucky is or that one even exists in Steve’s life.

She nods and pokes at her jello, her piercing eyes darting all around her only child’s features. She uses her plastic spoon to point at the hollow of his throat.

“You might need to get your eyes checked again, if you’re bumping into doors.” There’s something sickly sweet about her tone, a waver in her voice that could be laughter or anger. When Steve looks down and sees the bright mark, he can’t stop himself from flushing.

“Um, sure. Good idea.”

She stabs her jello and crosses her arms, her eyebrows rising high on her forehead, looking at him like he hasn’t seen in a while.

“Steven.”

“Mom.”

She narrows her eyes in a way that Sam assures makes the two of them look even more alike than they already do. And Steve supposes it’s true. His golden hair comes from her, as do his blue eyes, though his are a shade duskier. Her stature is small, like his, but the only thin things about her are her wrists and her nose, the latter of which Steve did not inherit from her.

She’s also very beautiful, which Steve isn’t, but he thinks Bucky might beg to differ and that makes him smile.

“Tell me about this person.”

Sarah has a way of demanding things without sounding severe. No matter how hard Steve tries to master it, he just can’t.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Her laugh is light and soft. Her eyes crinkle just like his do when he’s happy. 

“Steve, I’m your mother. I think I deserve to know the name of the person who’s making you so happy.”

He makes a noise and shovels some pudding into his mouth, not daring to ask how she knows what he’s feeling because it’s obviously painted all over his face and body language. And in the not-so-hidden love bites.

“Boy or girl?” she prompts, knowing that Steve is going to be difficult. What else is new?

He clears his throat and keeps his eyes on his spoon when he grunts out, “Boy.”

She hums. “Friend of a friend?”

“No.”

“What’s his name?”

And dammit, the way he sighs Bucky’s name makes him sound like a lovesick puppy. It also makes his mother’s face shine bright.

“Oh, _Steve._ ”

“Ma, _no_.”

“Steve, please? Please let me meet him? He won’t even have to come over for dinner – I know how your father gets. You can bring him here!”

Steve snorts. “Sounds great. Oh, hey Bucky – wanna maybe meet my mom in a hospital cafeteria so we can eat pudding and she can embarrass me and make you run for the hills?”

Sarah stabs at her jello again but makes no move to eat it. “Well… I see your point. Maybe you’re not at that stage yet. How long have you been with Bucky? And I hope you know I shouldn’t even have to ask that, Steve. You should tell me these things.”

“We’re not –”Actually together?  But they kind of are, aren’t they? Steve certainly thinks so. “I mean, it’s still pretty new.”

Sarah beams at Steve and practically pleads, “Tell me about him.”

It’s because Steve feels guilty about not spending enough time with his mother, the woman who raised and doted and loved him unconditionally, as well as the fact that he can’t pass up the opportunity to wax poetic about Bucky, that he launches himself into a very slow and edited tale of how they met (outside the lounge on his birthday, which is sort of true… second meeting, but whatever), what Bucky looks like (tall, dark hair, light eyes, and the best, most beautiful smile Steve’s ever seen), and a few details he knows would be okay to spill (he’s got a really neat tattoo, is 23, has a sister in DC, and lives in Bronx).

She demands that they be introduced. Steve groans and slumps in defeat.

/\/\/\/\/\

**[November]**

Bucky bangs his knuckles against Steve’s door more incessantly than he needs to, but it’s just the nerves getting to him. He’s supposed to take Steve to meet Fury today.  It doesn’t sound like a big deal until his brain starts to rephrase it and _Steve meeting Fury_ becomes _my boyfriend meeting the Bratva’s boss._ He’s about ready to start whining and scratching at the wood like Cap does when he’s nervous.

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve greets with ease once the barrier between them is pulled open.

Bucky, with a furrow in his brow, leans down absently to peck Steve on the lips.

And that’s when he notices it.

“Khakis? Fuckin’ hell, _come on_.”

Steve, the little shit, has the gall to smile like he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t care.

“What’s wrong, Buck?”

“You’re tryin’ to make ‘em hate you before you even open your mouth!”

Steve laughs and grips Bucky’s wrist to pull him inside.

“I don’t care if they hate me, so long as they leave you alone. Now, is there anything I shouldn’t bring up?”

Bucky watches as Steve tucks in his white button up and is unable to stop his eyes from rolling or his lips from twitching.

“Don’t ask about the eye or what any of us do. Really, don’t say anything unless he asks, and keep your answers short. I don’t want Fury in my business and especially don’t want him in yours.”

“Yeah, yeah. Can we go now? I got a paper to write.”

“Awe,” Bucky coos, reaching up to smooth Steve’s hair out when he gets close enough. The shorter blond scowls and slaps Bucky’s hands away, but he persists and grins. “And don’t worry, okay? Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“I know that,” Steve huffs. Bucky’s chest gets poked by a slender finger. “ _You’re_ the one who’s worried. Let’s go.”

 

The Commander is parked right in the front of the building and Steve gets ushered inside, Bucky’s palm never leaving the small of his back. People are staring and whispering, but Steve keeps his hands in his pockets and holds his head up high, acting as if everyone was invisible. Bucky, for his part, glares daggers at anyone he deigns to look their way.

They take the stairs at a slow pace, careful of Steve’s asthma, and they’re greeted by Natasha when they get to the top floor. She’s more discreet in her observations, having already seen Coulson’s intrusive photos, and she focuses mostly on trying to convey Fury’s mood with just her eyes. Bucky hopes he correctly understands that there’s currently no cause for panic.

Bucky taps on Fury’s reinforced door, pushing Steve behind his back for safe keeping. He hears a grumbled, “ _You’re not my shield, Bucky. I can take care of myself_ ,” and chooses to ignore it.

“Come in!” a voice shouts from the inside. Even muffled, it’s booming.

The door gets shoved open with a deep breath and then Bucky steps inside Fury’s office, a place he’s only been a handful of times before, pulling Steve along gently by the wrist.

“Close the door,” Fury commands, his back turned while he shuffles through a filing cabinet situated behind his desk. Steve completes his request with ease and then takes a spot near Bucky just behind the high-backed chairs. “State your business."

“It’s Barnes, sir.”

That gets the tall Pakhan to turn on his heel. He levels Bucky with a stern one-eyed gaze before doing the same to Steve. Bucky swears Fury’s aloof gaze lingers on those damn khakis.

“And this is Rogers, I assume?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve answers quickly. Bucky side-eyes him.

“Have a seat.”

They plop themselves down into the cushy chairs, staring straight ahead, waiting for Fury to get on with whatever he has planned for this little meeting. He watches Fury take his own seat, watches thick hands steeple themselves atop the compact desk.

“Alright, let’s get this over with. When and how did you meet Barnes and why are the two of you fraternizing?”

Bucky’s prepared to answer, but he knows Fury wants to hear it from Steve, so he shuts his mouth and waits. Steve, though he’s rigid, has a demeanor of absolute calm. He doesn’t even blink when he answers.

“I met Bucky in June, at the police station –”

“The one your father works at?”

Bucky stares at the way Steve’s head cocks an inch.

“Yeah,” he answers clearly. “And we’re _fraternizing_ because we like each other. That’s a common reason, isn’t it?”

Oh, god. Bucky had hoped Steve’s sass would take the day off, but of course not. He has to refrain from covering his face with his hands.

“Let me be more direct,” Fury declares. “What’s in this for you?”

“Excuse me?”

And just like that, shit hits the fan. Bucky hunkers down in the chair when Steve shoots upright and balls his hands into small fists at his sides.

“What do you _mean_ , what’s in it for me? Look, I know why I’m here. You don’t trust Bucky; you think I’m some undercover informant he’s blindly feeding information to. And I’m sure you know a _lot_ about undercover informants, Mr. Fury, so I’m wondering why you have trouble recognizing who’s one and who’s not.”

“And what exactly are you implying, Mr. Rogers?” Fury asks, trying to keep calm in the face of Steve’s contagious temper.

“That anyone who sends a kid out to do their dirty work might not be so trustworthy themselves.”

Bucky wonders if he looks as sickly as he suddenly feels. The way Fury’s looking at him suggests he doesn’t look sickly enough.

“And anyone who only listens to one side of the story might be a little naïve.”

Bucky starts cracking his knuckles when Steve leans forward to touch Fury’s desk.

“Being naïve is the least of my problems,” Steve nearly growls. “What’s the least of yours?”

For a moment, all Bucky can do is stare, much like Fury and his twitching eye. And for that moment, Bucky swears Steve’s grown twice his size, his words and his bravado making him appear as big and strong as he is on the inside. Even when he blinks and sees that the guy he cares so much about is as small as he always is, Bucky feels a jolt chase up his spine to lodge inside his brain, one that tells him never to forget Steve’s fierceness.

Steve gripping the desk and staring down his boss with stern, fearless features probably shouldn’t make Bucky flush with embarrassment as well as arousal, but it does and he can’t stop it, doesn’t really care to either.

He should though, to save their lives. He’s heard some scary stories about Fury over the nine years he’s been hanging around and some even scarier stuff about Natasha, who doesn’t admit to seeing Fury as a parental figure but _does_ , so Bucky isn’t eager to make anyone upset. Meanwhile, Steve only seems to care about not stepping on toes when he’s dancing.

Fury heaves out something like a heavy sigh and leans back in his chair, rocking it a handful of times. Steve’s hands slide off the desk to once again rest at his sides, fingers curled up enough to touch his palms, and Bucky grounds his feet against the hard wood floor so as to push himself straighter into the chair.

“Let’s get something straight. You’re here because I asked you to be. I don’t know what you’re doing with each other and I don’t give a damn 'cause my concern, which is starting to seem like one we don’t share, is who’s trying to take us down and how they’ve been able to get this far.” Bucky has a fleeting moment to realize that things are happening behind the scenes of which he has no clue about. He’s not sure if that’s good or bad. “I’m gonna knock your boy here farther down the list, Barnes, but you better not make me regret it, otherwise I’ll make _you_ regret it.”

“Hey,” Steve pipes up angrily. “Don’t threaten him!”

Fury snorts mockingly at the two of them. “I shouldn’t, should I? Might have your daddy waiting for me the next time I leave my home. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Steve opens his mouth to fire off a retort that Bucky’s sure will only make matters worse, so he reaches out far enough to tap his fingers to the side of Steve’s hand. Luckily, it quiets him, reminds him of the fact that they’re in Bucky’s turf and that this behavior will come back to bite him in the ass more than anyone. Steve always takes responsibility for himself, which means that, for once, he has to back down.

“I don’t give a fuck what you think, okay?” Bucky bites out boldly, somehow managing not to sound completely contentious. “And I _do_ share that concern, or maybe you’ve missed the fact that _I’m_ the one who keeps gettin’ his ass kicked in this little war, it’s just not the only thing I care about anymore. So if were done here, we’re gonna leave, but not before I make sure you at least know who you should be keeping an eye on.”

“Rumlow,” Fury intones after a brief pause, revealing that Natasha _had_ been trying to get through for Bucky. When he nods, Fury continues. “That’ll be something for _you_ to look into. Next week. I’ll have something for you then.” He points to the door. “Dismissed.”

Bucky grabs Steve by the hem of his jacket before the guy can start to protest and leads both of them back out into the hall. Steve slams the door hard behind them.

Once Bucky sucks in a few deep breaths, mostly to calm himself mentally, he pushes Steve against the wall and glares without much anger but with a hell of a lot of heat.

“Shit, Steve,” he breathes, encircling the width of Steve’s delicate wrists in his warm hands.

Steve’s forehead creases and his glower looks more like a pout with Bucky invading his space just so.

“I don’t like the way he talks to you,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky lets out a relieved sigh when he feels Steve’s palm at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well I don’t think he likes the way you talk to him either, punk.”

Steve at least has the decency to hang his head a little. Bucky’s immediate reaction is to use his index finger to prop that chin up, so he does and places his thumb just underneath the jutted bottom lip that’s like a magnet for his eyes.

“It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, huh?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. His answer of, “Gee, I hope not,” makes Steve crack a smile that widens when his floppy blond hair is smoothed away from his face. “You need a haircut,” he remarks, not even trying to change the subject but succeeding in doing so anyway.

“You can do it,” Steve suggests with considerable nonchalance.

“Me? I don’t know how to cut hair, Stevie.”

“Sure you do.” Steve’s smile is distraction enough, but the way his hands press and drag against Bucky’s thin shirt is even more so. “You told me you cut your own hair.”

“Yeah, one time,” he laughs. He also takes a step back because he’s not about to let Steve’s mesmerizing actions convince him into fucking around right outside Fury’s door just for spite and passion.

“Well? I trust you.”

And that’s the source of whatever problems lie ahead, Bucky thinks. That Steve trusts him so utterly – to not screw up his hair, to bring food when he’s too busy to eat, to keep Cap entertained when his asthma acts up. To touch him gentle or rough or however he asks for it, with words or with his body. To make him laugh and smile more often than he makes him mad. To meet his friends and, next, his _mother_. To care for him in a way he doesn’t always believe he deserves.

Steve trusts Bucky with his life and with his heart and Bucky doesn’t know what to do with that except take it because nothing else has meant so much. And he's starting to believe that he trusts Steve in all the same ways. 

\/\/\/\/\/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than expected. I haven't felt like getting anything down lately, but I managed to get this chapter done so, yay? Also, I had an idea for another story and was thinking about that, which took up some time, but I'm not sure if I'll end up writing it or not, even when this one's done. 
> 
> And this fic is leading up to some action, most likely in the next chapter. I don't have a count of how many chapters are left, but I'm gonna guess about 3 or 4? I dunno. We'll see. I hope you guys are still enjoying this! I'm always happy to get feedback. :)
> 
> (And sorry for this chapter, if it feels all over the place. It seems to happen a lot when I take too long to finish things.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muscles twitch against his hold, clenching and relaxing at sporadic intervals, as if Bucky’s warring with letting go or grasping tighter. He falls asleep eventually, the indent between his brow stubborn enough to withstand the attempted smoothing from Steve’s thumb. He knows that’s not a good sign. He knows that, even in sleep, Bucky is thinking about trying to cut Steve out of his life. It won’t happen. Steve will stick with him until the end because he’s too far gone for anything else.

 

Whatever Bucky is dreading as he follows Steve back down the several flights of stairs seems to come to a head when they’re forced to stop near a group four, three guys and Natasha, and all of them staring. Steve hears a whisper of a curse tumble through Bucky’s lips and feels the heavy hand settle higher on his back, twisting into the fabric of his jacket to keep both of them grounded.

“You really thought you were gonna get away?” a guy in a hat asks, grinning from behind a bushy mustache.

Steve’s not sure if these people are here to cause trouble for Bucky or what, though he imagines Natasha wouldn’t be part of something like that. It’s not until Bucky sighs and starts the introductions that Steve can offer any semblance of a smile.

“Fine. Guy in the stupid hat is Dum Dum. Next to him is Coulson, then Barton. You already met Natasha. Everyone, this is Steve.”

Dum Dum holds a hand out immediately, eager to clasp Steve’s in a friendly shake. “S’good to finally meet Bucky’s fella.”

Steve doesn’t miss the shift in Bucky’s stance, how he crowds himself closer to Steve as if the words trigger him to do so. Steve shifts, too; reflexive, in step with Bucky like always, no matter what they do.

“Sorry for the invasive picture taking,” the man called Coulson says next in a voice that’s calm and monotone, almost deceptively so.

“He couldn’t resist,” Dum Dum adds. Then, turning to Bucky, continues, “Caught him eavesdropping outside Fury’s door, too. Heard your boy tellin’ the Boss what for. Phil here’s got a crush, Bucky.”

Steve isn’t sure what twitches, his eye or Coulson’s mouth.

“That’s false information,” Coulson reassures, prompting Barton to press his lips together to stop from laughing.

Steve’s used to awkward situations, but that doesn’t mean they get any easier. He tries to smile, closed-lip and embarrassed, and listen with full attention as Dum Dum launches into a tale about how he and Bucky became friends (no violence was involved, surprisingly; just poker) while Natasha leans in close to whisper something important into Bucky’s ear. He keeps an eye on Bucky’s expression and is relieved to see no change in it, though that could either mean a lack of bad news or bad news that he’s not surprised by. Whatever the case, Steve has a feeling that it’s nothing good.

 

They don’t stay for long, somehow managing to tear themselves away from dangerous Bratva members that act more like Bucky’s strange, overbearing siblings. But Steve supposes that’s the whole idea; these people _are_ Bucky’s family now, whether they always like it or not.

“Better watch it,” Bucky teases on the ride back to Brooklyn. “Coulson might not let me borrow his car unless I let him borrow _you_.”

“Well, here are your options. You can give up the car and be rewarded for your walk to my apartment. Or you can attempt to keep the car and drive right on by ‘cause I’m not gonna let you pimp me out to your weird friends.”

Bucky practically howls at that, makes Steve smile even when the car starts to drift and the wheel gets jerked.

“Nah, come on. Don’t you know I’m a jealous man? No one’s touchin’ you ‘cept me.”

Despite his confident words, Bucky’s glance over at Steve is sharp, quick to seek approval. Steve’s mouth spreads into a small smile and he rests a hand on the back of a tense neck that immediately relaxes under the gentle swiping of his thumb, a motion that lasts until they stop the car at the apartment.

They’ll take their time going up, using all the space on the stairs so they can walk side-by-side, shoulders bumping with every bend at the knee. They’ll coo when Cap tries to jump into both of their arms and Bucky will laugh when Steve gets knocked off balance so the only way he’s standing is by way of Bucky’s chest pressed up against his back. Then Steve will get started on his paper, the first interruption coming from Bucky serving a late lunch, the second interruption by way of a phone call from Sam. The third interruption is like the first only in the fact that it’s Bucky once again, stopping Steve’s typing – not by food, but by innocent touches that turn rather purposeful well under the five minute mark.

_“Thank you,”_ he’ll whisper, warm and wet against soft skin, breathy enough to elicit shivers from the body hunched beneath his tall form. And Steve will watch Bucky stride to the couch, hands toying with the hair at the nape of his neck; watch him pause then keep going, straight toward Steve’s room, straight inside, the open door a vague invitation until clothes start drifting to pile in front of it.

Steve won’t finish his paper and Bucky won’t leave.

They take their time going up, using all the space on the stairs so they can walk side-by-side, shoulders bumping with every bend at the knee. Steve’s good at thinking ahead and even better at imagining the possibilities that can and will become realities.

/\/\/\/\/\

Fury’s mission comes exactly a week later, just like he said it would. Barton’s brigade is to defend a shed on the Building Material property that the Bratva has been using for exchanges for years, one that Hydra’s been trying to acquire as part of the turf war that Natasha told him about.

Busy people turn the other way when Dum Dum’s old Buick creeps up 31st Avenue, passing the mixing trucks to park under an overhang. The doors slam behind them as they each step out onto the damp pavement, three sets of eyes roaming the vacated area, observing every inch in search of something or someone even remotely out of place.

The clouded sky blocks their shadows and they walk a path littered only with a few stray leaves the wind had carried from afar. Bucky scans the parked cars before entering the small, discreet back shed and then lets his six be watched by Dum Dum in favor of cataloging Rumlow’s every twitch and twist and heavy step.

He’s been to this place numerous times, knows the layout and the secret latch that leads to a modern equivalent of a speakeasy, just with a lot of vodka and harsh syllabic yelling. But he’s at a disadvantage, if he’s honest with himself, because Rumlow’s been here even more times and is buddy-buddy with the guy who runs the place.

“Did you ever talk to the boss about that rat?” Rumlow asks, his tone conversational despite the low volume.

Bucky’s steps don’t falter, he doesn’t stutter when he lies and says, “Nah, not yet,” but he’s sure that Rumlow’s eyes are lasers that cut straight through him.

“You still planning on doin’ that?”

Bucky looks at Rumlow. He takes a little too long to smile, he thinks, because looking at the face of a traitor doesn’t really inspire pleasantries.

“Maybe,” he decides to say. “Depends on how things keep goin’.”

Rumlow’s expression turns thoughtful as he nods. Bucky doesn’t like the idea of Rumlow _thinking_ , possibly devising a plan of attack while they’re down here by themselves, heading deeper into the low-lit area.

It’s not as clean as Bucky remembers. Far more empty, too. It could be a good sign. Whatever they’re hiding here is being well guarded, ready for pickup. On the other hand… Bucky’s here on an order from Fury, an order that originated from Pierce, and he’s standing next to Rumlow. All of this is beginning to spell _trap_.

Bucky gives a short, beckoning whistle, calling Dum Dum over. He doesn’t acknowledge Rumlow when he feels the prying eyes on the side of his face, just continues to stare at his friend as he ambles over, leaning in close to hear the whispered words.

It’s not uncommon for the two to communicate this way. Bucky is, essentially, a hit-man on many occasions and Dum Dum is usually his personal bodyguard. It can’t be like that right now.

“Go wait for me in the car.”

Dum Dum is smart enough to keep his expression neutral when he asks, " _Why?"_

Bucky keeps their gazes locked. “Just do it,” he prompts. “перейти.”

Dum Dum gives a curt nod and takes the stairs back up very slowly, throwing glances over his shoulders every few seconds until he’s too high up to be seen any longer. Bucky’s very aware that he just made Rumlow and his friends suspicious, but he doesn’t care. Dum Dum’s safety is more important than screwing up a deal that could be going south already.

“Where’s he going?” Rumlow’s buddy asks.

_None of your business,_ he could say, but he shouldn’t so he doesn’t, lets a lie roll off his tongue instead. “Just checking something I left in the car. Got stuff to do after this.”

“Right.”

Rumlow’s smile is predatory and Bucky’s never felt so much like prey. He’s in a dark room, practically cornered even though he’s closer to the steps, and these two men – two _Hydra agents_ – have him at their mercy. Not even he’s fast enough to move if someone drew and shot. There’s nothing to duck behind on this side anyway, just the stairs to stomp up and then fall back down when he’s hit.

Bucky can’t see the future, but he doesn’t have to; the tense silence is a prelude to the horror that’s about to go down.

“The package?” he prompts, trying to speed things along. If he can get one of them to move, then maybe he can go in farther find a way out –

The man turns and Rumlow strikes. It’s a move that Bucky hadn’t anticipated, killing his own friend, and it makes Bucky freeze for a second too long.

Rumlow’s already rushing him, bloody knife raised for the kill, and Bucky gets halfway up the stairs before he feels the blade tear his pants and scrape against his skin. He hisses and turns, kicking out, forcing the next swipe of the knife to hit the creaking steps instead of his torso. He’s not so lucky the third time.

Bucky trips when he tries to scramble up backwards. He’s too busy holding himself up to block the shot, so all he can do is grab onto Rumlow’s arm and try to lessen the blow.

“Hyrda wants what’s theirs,” he breathes, looking Bucky straight in the eyes. “Your life.”

He doesn’t see it happen, doesn’t look down to watch, but he feels the steel of the knife slip into his abdomen. He feels _odd_ more than pained; shocked and scared and hopped up on adrenaline. When Rumlow tries to shove the knife deeper, Bucky’s able to hold him off and get a knee up, which _is_ painful, so he can press his boot flat against his enemies’ chest.

Bucky grabs onto the knife and kicks Rumlow away, a rough, garbled sound making its way out his throat when he feels the weapon jostle, but he succeeds in keeping it lodged inside his body.

“ _Fucker,_ ” he growls, breath coming in shaky gasps as he twists and propels himself up the steps to see the gray light of day again. There’s no way he’ll die underground, especially not by fucking _Rumlow’s_ hand.

He probably won’t die from the wound he has now, but he can’t get away fast enough like this and if Rumlow reaches him before he can flag down Dum Dum then it’s all over. Bucky can try to fight and he will, but it’ll do more damage than good and he’ll just make it worse for himself.

He needs to hear Steve’s voice.

Hands grab at his heels, forcing him to land hard on his knees. He grips his phone and clutches tighter at the foreign object piercing through his skin, his only source of protection coming from how hard he can kick and keep kicking.

Bucky, with bloody, trembling fingers, finds Steve’s number and calls. The sound of bones crunching beneath his boot and the pained groan gets ignored in favor of listening to Steve’s voice greet him with a pleasant, “Hey, Buck.”

“St –” he pauses to grunt at having to push open the door that suddenly feels far heavier than it had earlier.

“Bucky?”

He’s barreled over, managing to flip himself at the expense of twisting his ankle so as not to land on the knife. The asphalt cuts into his palms, makes his vision go blurry when his head hits, and the phone slides a few feet away from his outstretched arm. It’s a miracle that Rumlow keeps running because if not…

The sound of Steve calling out his name through the receiver is soft, but he knows it must be shouted on the other end for him to even hear it this far away.

He crawls over, one hand at the base of the knife while the other slaps against the wet gravel in desperate search for his phone. His heart is thundering in his ears and he’s bleeding more than he had been. The pain is cutting through the curtain of dullness he’d been feeling before hitting the ground.

He tries to say Steve’s name. He coughs instead, holding back his gags, because this blood is _his_ and he’s going to _die_ and –

“Bucky, are you in trouble? Are you hurt? _Talk to me_.”

“Stevie, I’m – I’m hurt. I dunno how bad, but…”

“Where?” Steve demands. “Did you call an ambulance?”

No. _Fuck,_ no, he didn’t. How stupid can he be, calling Steve, getting him _involved_ , instead of trying to save his own sorry ass? What does it say about him that he’d rather hear Steve’s voice one more time than call 911 for help?

“No, I didn’t,” he has to admit, and the way Steve’s breath seizes makes the panic steal his own breaths at a quicker pace.

“Christ, Bucky – Are you alone?”

“No. Dum Dum… he’s in the car.”

“Call an ambulence,” Steve instructs. His steady voice is hard and tight. “Then call him. Where are you?”

“Flushing,” he answers vaguely, giving up on trying to crawl all the way out front by stopping and dropping to his back. “But Steve, please don’t hang up, okay? I can’t –” He sniffles back his tears and shit, now isn’t the time for this.

“Bucky, you need to call for help,” Steve tells him, and though he can’t see, Bucky shakes his head.

“I’m scared.”

“ _Bucky –_ ” he chokes. Then, in the background; “Sam, call 911. Bucky’s hurt. He’s in Flushing.”

“31st Avenue,” Bucky supplies when he’s asked.

Then he hears Steve ordering Peggy to call Dum Dum, forcing Bucky to rattle off the number by memory just to prove that he can. It would all be so easier if he just hung up with Steve and did this himself, but he can’t.

He can’t let Steve go.

“How bad is it?” Steve asks after a gulping breath.

Bucky mirrors him, trying to breathe easy; in and out and in and out and in and out.

“S’not bad. But I got a knife sticking outta my gut and it’s freaking me out, I gotta say.”

“Leave it in!” Steve says hastily, as if Bucky would suddenly get the wild idea of yanking it out.

“I _know_ ,” he bites out. “I’m not dumb.”

“Well, you got yourself stabbed,” Steve huffs. “I’d say you’re a little stupid.”

Bucky remembers a conversation like this from before. _Only for you_ , he’d said.

He repeats that now: “Only for you.”

It could be the wrong thing to say and, for a moment, he thinks it is by the way Steve grumbles. But when he speaks clearly, his voice is higher pitched with fear and full of tears he can’t see and Bucky shuts his eyes.

“You’re gonna be okay, y’know? You’ll be just fine. Dum Dum’s runnin’ to you right now and he’ll help you put pressure on the wound, okay Buck? And then the ambulance is gonna show up and they’ll take you to the hospital – my mom works there, remember, at the one in Queens? That’s where they’ll take you and she’ll get you better and she’ll _love_ you, trust me.”

“I do,” Bucky murmurs. He’s trying to feel around the wound, add pressure with the edge of his shirt, but he’s so tired right now. His once shaky limbs now feel like lead holding him to the ground and the pain his body is throbbing.

He’s vaguely aware of Dum Dum dropping down next to him, tearing off a part of his own shirt to press around the knife. He can hear Steve’s voice in his ear too; comforting and lulling him into an impassive state that’s not quite sleep but close enough to calm him down until the wailing sirens are the only noise his fuzzy mind can settle on.

\/\/\/\/\/

This is… Steve doesn’t even know what this is. Bucky’s hurt, hurt bad enough to be scared and crying, and Steve has never known such panic. Not like this.

Steve rushes in with Sam and Peggy at his heels, going straight for where Natasha had informed him that she, Clint, and Dum Dum would be waiting. They spot her fiery head with ease and waste no time ambushing her.

She handles Steve’s wheezing questions very well.

“They took him into surgery. That’s the last we’ve heard.”

Steve nods and strides over to the nearest desk to be greeted with familiarity by the woman behind it.

“You here for your mom?”

“I’m here for James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Do you have an update on him? Or can you at least let me know if my mom’s involved with his care?”

She probably shouldn’t tell him anything and Steve would understand if she didn’t, but she’s known Steve since he was six years old and he wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t important.

“She saw him when they brought him in,” she informs Steve and Natasha now that she’s standing by his side. They’re around the same height and can perfectly put their arms around each other, so they do, both needing whatever support they can offer in this moment. “She’ll be checking up on him once he’s out, too. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

It’s a relief to Steve and he thanks her profusely before walking with Natasha back over to the chairs. Peggy and Sam, across from Steve, are careful not to say a word. Meanwhile, on his right, Clint is attempting to comfort a very torn-up Dum Dum. He feels no pain when Natasha’s red fingernails dig into his arm.

The fact that they wait over an hour before hearing anything is nerve-wracking all by itself, but then thoughts of what could possibly be keeping them start to surface and make everything worse. Natasha shoves her hand into his pocket and pulls out his inhaler without him even realizing it.

He’s not quite sure he _needs_ the puff he takes, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious when someone you care about screws up so royally. And Steve knows he can’t blame Bucky for getting hurt, it’s just that, well, _damn it_ , he should know better! He’s supposed to know what he’s doing! He isn’t supposed to call Steve with what he believes to be his dying breath like saying goodbye to Bucky wouldn’t just wreck his life –

“Steve,” Natasha breathes when she hears the thoughts that spew from Steve’s mouth. “It’s not just one person at fault here. He had suspicions and we should’ve known…”

“ _I_ should’ve known,” Dum Dum stresses, crushing his hat between meaty hands. “He’s an idiot for tellin’ me to leave but I’m a fuckin’ moron for listening.”

Steve can see her eyes begin to glisten, but her voice holds strong. “You were following orders,” she tells Dum Dum. Then she looks back to Steve as she says, “So was he.”

“And whose orders was he following? Fury’s?” Steve shakes his head at the silent answer. He can yell threats until he’s blue in the face and gasping for breath yet again, but he doesn’t. Steve sits and stews in his own anger until it drains at the sight of his mother walking down the bright hall and the only thing he can feel is nervous hope.

She smiles at him and that’s his first relief.

“He’s alright. Nothing major was hit, but he was in surgery to stop the bleeding. We gave him a transfusion, got him cleaned and stitched up. With some rest, medication, and monitoring, he should heal just fine.”

“Is he awake?” Natasha wonders, pulling at her fingers nervously.

“Yes. Woke up about 10 minutes ago. Been fighting off sleep ever since.”

“Can I see him?” Natasha stills her hands once she realizes what she’s doing. “He hasn’t spoken to his mom in over a decade and she lives in DC with his sister anyway. I’m the closest family he’s got.”

“Well, we just moved him into a room. Give him at least 10 more minutes to settle.”

“What kind of drugs did you give him? He doesn’t –” She stops herself from continuing.

“Just an NSAID,” Sarah answers. “Uh, non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs.  Ibuprofen’s less likely to give stomach ulcers, so that’s what we’re using for now. And antibiotics.”

Natasha nods and settles herself into the seat Steve had previously occupied, so as to be closer to Dum Dum, and Steve follows his mother down the hall for a more private chat.

“ _Steve_.” Sarah sounds suddenly distressed. “He kept mentioning you. I thought…”

“I wasn’t with him when he got hurt. He called me, that’s how I knew. I wasn’t there.”

It’s said to reassure her but he can’t hide the guilt and bitterness he feels, too. _I wasn’t there._

“Oh, thank god. I couldn’t stand thinking you could’ve gotten hurt or that you _did_ and he –”

“Mom,” he says, but she continues to ramble about Steve’s safety and how he _needs to be more careful_ and _could you please look after yourself for once?_ So he tries again, stressing, “Ma!”

She stops and breathes. “But that’s him, right? I mean, you can’t possibly know more than one Bucky.”

Steve cracks a tired smile. Bucky’s okay and so is he. For now.

“That’s him.”

“And how’d he get stabbed? Mugging?”

Steve shakes his head. It isn’t his place to say, is it? He and Bucky are… are _something_ , which means his mother will want to know every single detail she can get. But at the same time, Steve can’t be completely honest because he knows Bucky wouldn’t want him to, for safety more than image. Steve knows Bucky cares whether or not his mother likes him (approves is a whole different story), but safety is always the main concern wherever they’re involved.

And he doesn’t know all the details anyway so it’s not really a lie when he says, “He got into a fight.”

“And the issue with the drugs?”

Bucky told him about his past addiction in confidence and even to his mother, Steve isn’t about to blab. Whatever his expression is must clue Sarah on, however, because she sighs and her weary eyes go soft.

“He’s clean now,” she says. It’s not a question. “That’s good. That matters. We don’t care about anything else, do we, Steve?”

“No.” He wraps his thin arms around his mother’s torso and hugs her tight. “No, we don’t.”

 

Twenty minutes later finds Steve escorting himself into Bucky’s room the moment Natasha reenters the hall. She looks better, not as pale and more at ease. It calms Steve enough to put on a smile before he even lays eyes on Bucky.

The only thing he’s hooked up to, it seems, is an IV and a cardiac monitor. There’s also an oxygen mask off to the side that’s not being used. And on the bed, lying flat on his back is Bucky, who lifts his bandaged head to see his newest guest. The furrowed brows smooth out and his pout twists into an immediate, dopey grin the moment his brain registers that Steve is standing by his bed.

God, Steve’s heart just melts.

“Didn’t picture meeting your mom like this,” he croaks out, clearing his throat as he gestures to his bedridden body. “But she’s nice.”

“Yeah, and worried. How’re you feeling?”

Bucky snorts, winces when he tries to sit up. “Like I got stabbed,” he mumbles. “What about you?”

“Like _I_ got stabbed.”

“Awe, Steve… I’m sorry I –”

“You scared the shit outta me,” Steve interrupts, shuffling over to the side of the bed. There’s a chair already there, from when Natasha had been in, so he drags it closer and plops down. Bucky holds his hand out for taking. Steve grabs the warm fingers and squeezes. “I got here as soon as I could. Peggy and Sam came, too, and Clint’s out there with Natasha and Dum Dum. I think he wants to see you, but…”

“Fuck,” says under his breath. When he attempts to shift into a sitting position, Steve pushes him back down forcefully.

“Don’t bend like that, idiot,” he snaps. His temper is beginning to flare now that he sees for himself how alive and relatively okay Bucky is. “You could’ve died!”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “but I didn’t. And it’s not like you don’t know the shit I do is dangerous. I told you that in the beginning.”

“So, what? I shouldn’t be surprised when you call me with a potentially fatal injury? I shouldn’t be worried or scared or upset? Just because I _know_ doesn’t mean I like it and it sure as hell doesn’t mean I care any less.” Steve leans forward and clasps his hand around Bucky’s jaw, stretching out his fingers to curl around a warm neck. “Fury sent you on a mission with a guy you had suspicions of. What did he think was gonna happen?”

“It’s done, Steve. I’m gonna talk to Fury.” Bucky face hardens when he says, “Then I’m gonna find Rumlow and I’m gonna kill him.”

It’s a jolt to his system, hearing Bucky – _his_ Bucky – say those words.

He’s not… well, Steve believes in vengeance, and this Rumlow guy tried to kill Bucky, so of course Bucky could go after him. Steve would do it himself, if he could. But it’s the idea that Bucky says it so lightly, that taking a life, even one of a bad man, seems to mean nothing to him.

Steve doesn’t know how he feels or what he thinks. He figures it’s better to focus on Bucky getting better than anything else right now.

“Steve?” It’s a whisper. He looks up to meet Bucky’s unusually dull eyes. “I think this is it for us.”

They’re just words, for a moment; they don’t mean anything. But then Steve blinks and he thinks, understands, and his whole body deflates.

“Are you kidding me?”

Bucky's deep inhale hitches. “Look, I told you I wasn’t gonna get you involved. It was either that or nothing. And then I take you to meet my fucking boss and I come over when just because and call you when I’m hurt. I can’t do that anymore. So now it’s gotta be nothing.”

“Why? Why does it have to be one extreme or the other? S’not like I’m going out there with you!”

“You might as well be, with the way I’m paradin’ you around!” Bucky yells. Steve punches his leg and shushes him.

“We’re not talking about this now,” Steve tells him. He makes sure his tone leaves no room for current discussion. “You need to take care of yourself and I’m gonna help.”

He brushes his fingertips through Bucky’s matted hair, eliciting a sigh, and Bucky settles down for a nap because Steve demands it.

“I don’t care what you do,” he murmurs against Bucky’s knuckles. “So long as you’re safe, _I don’t care_. And nothing is gonna change that. Nothing’s gonna change the way I feel about you.”

Muscles twitch against his hold, clenching and relaxing at sporadic intervals, as if Bucky’s warring with letting go or grasping tighter. He falls asleep eventually, the indent between his brow stubborn enough to withstand the attempted smoothing from Steve’s thumb. He knows that’s not a good sign. He knows that, even in sleep, Bucky is thinking about trying to cut Steve out of his life. It won’t happen. Steve will stick with him until the end because he’s too far gone for anything else.

So far gone, in fact, that he’s finally figured out the name for what he feels. Damn them both, but Steve loves Bucky Barnes. _He loves him_.

/\/\/\/\/\

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took waaaay too long and is shorter than I had planned, I'm sorry. I just wanted to take a break, which ended up in me writing a The Proposal AU. But now I'm back to finishing this before I start another story (I have two in mind, currently).
> 
> This fic has a couple of chapters left. I just have to crack down on writing them out. Some stuff's about to go down, is all I'm gonna say.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for being patient and for reading. Any and all comments are appreciated; I love knowing your opinions! Hope this update is good enough for now. The wait for the next one shouldn't be quite so long.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ll figure it out, Buck. I swear.” Thumbs graze his cheeks, swipe his nose and press down on his parted lips. Blue eyes are warm and tender, and Bucky is drowning in them. “We’re gonna get through this,” he says lowly. “Together, okay?”

He tries to be firm and tell Steve no, but it doesn’t work out very well.

Staying at Steve’s Brooklyn apartment for the past two weeks has gone better than expected and Bucky often forgets that he’s supposed to be making things tense, that they’re supposed to be on the verge of what he might call a break-up. And he forgets that it’s not easy with Steve; because he’s ended things with others before, no problem, but he’s never felt so tied to someone like he does with this little punk.

Instead of being silent and cold, which he’s very good at, he lets himself smile and stare and grab for Steve without hesitation. It’s fucking terrible, how good it feels to be taken care of. He’s completely out of his element and it doesn’t even matter because Steve looks at him like there’s nothing else in existence, like it’s just him, and they’ll revolve around each other for the rest of eternity and Bucky is completely fine with that. He’s dreamed about it, in fact.

So when Natasha calls and tells him apologetically that Fury wants to see him now, Bucky is ready to go. Steve is, too. He tries to be firm and tell Steve no, but the word just doesn’t exist.

 

Steve drives them to the Bratva building in his blue truck, parking illegally in front so they can sit and stare at each other, trying to communicate through their eyes. Bucky’s are saying ‘ _stay here_.’ Steve’s reply ‘ _not a chance_.’

He sighs and slides out of the car as carefully as he can, accustomed to taking things slow and steady because of his healing wound, and waits for Steve to meet him near the doors despite his anger.

The first thing he sees when he steps inside is Dum Dum. His nervous expression makes Bucky’s muscles tense.

“Pierce is up there.”

Fuck, of course he is, probably under the pretense of wanting to know what happened to the package Bucky was supposed to pick up before he got shanked by his own so-called brother. He was set up, plain and simple, and the fact that’s it’s taken the corrupt judge two weeks to schedule this little meeting can only mean more trouble is about to come his way. And Steve’s right here with him.

“Get in your truck and go home,” he tells Steve without looking, already following Dum Dum up the stairs. “I’ll meet you later.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not a promise, either. He knows that does nothing for getting Steve to obey.

A simple, “No,” is what he gets in reply. It makes him roll his eyes.

They can’t argue about this right now, so Bucky doesn’t start. He follows Dum Dum to Fury’s office and steps inside when the door gets opened for him, all while making sure Steve doesn’t slip past him to walk in first. Bucky’s the shield here. He can’t risk his safety no matter how hard Steve argues that he can take care of himself.

The first thing that strikes his chord of dread is his observation of Fury not being in the room. The second is the way Pierce spins around in the big, leather chair behind the desk very slowly, his fingers steepled and his eyes like bottomless pits as he watches them blankly.

“зима,” Pierce greets before his eyes stray over to the smaller body next to him. “And who’s this?”

Bucky doesn’t say a word and prays that Steve won’t either.

“Steve Rogers, I think,” he says after a moment, already knowing and ready to play the game. Bucky’s blood begins to freeze before Pierce’s nightmarish smile even begins to form. “How’s your father? Does he know who you’ve been choosing to spend your time with?”

“Hey, let’s not… let’s not involve him, okay?” Bucky asks, stepping closer with a hand stretched to hold Steve back. “Pretend Steve’s not even here. Now, I was told Fury wanted to talk to me, so where is he?”

“Occupied. I thought it’d be best if this chat involved just you and me.” His gaze flickers to Steve and then back to Bucky. “Your little friend might want to sit in on this lesson.”

Bucky only has time to swallow before he gets a backhanded slap to the face.

“Stop,” he grits; not to Pierce, but to Steve, who’s first instinct is to step forward in anger. “Don’t.”

Pierce slaps him again, on one cheek and then the other, before closing his fist and socking him in the jaw.

“Bucky!”

Pierce jabs him near the eye. “Oh, _Bucky_ , is it?” he sneers, and then his fist digs into his sore gut and Bucky falls under the pain.

“Stop!” Steve commands.

Pierce kicks Bucky in retaliation. He tries to protect his head and then his stomach as an afterthought, but alternating between both only causes him more pain. He can withstand that, at least; has taken worse _, far worse_ , before. So what really brings the tears to his eyes is when he witnesses Steve stomping over to shove Pierce as hard as he can, making the older man tumble into the desk.

The look of shock that Bucky can blearily see on Pierce quickly turns into red-faced anger. He wants to reach for Steve, but his arms stay locked around his trembling middle.

“He’s already hurt, dammit! _Stop_.”

“Let me tell you how this works,” Pierce says as evenly as he can while Bucky rolls onto his back. “Bucky here survived, and while you may think that’s a cause for celebration, it’s really not. Because that means that we failed. And we can’t afford to let some worthless puppet make fools of us. I’m teaching him a lesson of life.”

“By beating him within an inch of it?” Steve spits out. Bucky can see how tight his fists are clenched, how the vein in his neck stands out furiously against his pale skin. He tries to pull himself back into a standing position to take the rest of his beating in hopes that Pierce will let Steve leave without any reprecussions.

“Well, would you like to take his place?”

“No!” Bucky chokes.

But Steve has that determined look on his face and his tone is perfectly calm when he says, “Yes.”

Pierce grins like he’s just been given the greatest gift in the world. Bucky tries to protest, but the first hit against Steve’s face shocks him so bad that his brain tells his body he’s being beaten still, like he can feel the pain that Steve spits in the face of. Literally. After the third hit to his jaw, Steve spits blood into Pierce’s face and gets knocked to the floor with it, too many feet away for Bucky to crawl over and shield.

“You fucking –” Bucky grunts, forcing himself onto his knees. “Cut it out! Get him outta here and deal with me, you pansy ass creep! He can’t take it like I can. Pierce, please!”

He’s so distressed that he’s reduced to begging, pleading, and that only fuels Pierce’s vengeful fire. He wants to hurt Bucky so badly and he knows that smacking Steve around will kill him more than anything he could physically do to Bucky.

“I can take it,” he hears Steve gasp, trying to pull himself back to his feet again, never staying down like a smart man would. Steve is stupidly brave and it breaks Bucky’s heart.

Bucky presses his face to the floor when his silent, anguished tears begin to fall, but then Steve starts wheezing and the helplessness fades into wrath in its purest form and he finds himself surging up faster than he has in weeks to slam Pierce into Fury’s desk. The old judge tries to shove him off, but Bucky is strong and his knuckles are relentless, and his mind is a haze of red that nothing can cut through.

It’s not until he feels his fist slicing through air that he notices he’s being held tightly by Dum Dum while Steve’s shaky hands clutch at his face.

He yanks himself out of Dum Dum’s grip with a heaving breath and stares at Pierce’s unconscious body for a long moment, wishing he could will the man’s heart to stop. But he can’t and all he can do is break his own.

“This is it,” he tells Steve, staring into earnest blue eyes with a lie in his own that he hopes will match the rawness and the weakness in his body. “No more, Steve. Leave and don’t come back.”

“Bucky –”

“He knows who you are!” he shouts in his cracking voice. His body aches more for Steve’s bloodied features than from his own injuries. “He knows your dad. And now he knows how to break me. It ends here, I fucking mean it.”

He turns away from Steve before the little punk can convince him otherwise, turns to Dum Dum and mechanically tells him to take Steve over to Russo’s before making sure he gets home.

Steve tries so hard to get his attention while he’s being escorted out the door, yells at Bucky so fiercely that he starts to cry and then gasp and it takes every inch of self-control he has to ignore it, to trust that Dum Dum or Natasha will make sure he has his inhaler before helping him down the stairs.

It takes every ounce of self-control зима has for Bucky not to run after him. This life isn’t made for Steve and he can’t keep pretending that he was good enough anyway.

\/\/\/\/\/

Steve clings to his anger as a way to protect himself from feeling the weight of his broken heart.

/\/\/\/\/\

Bucky hasn’t felt this empty since coming out of Zola’s secret room all those years ago.

\/\/\/\/\/

**[December]**

“You’ve been through breakups before.”

Steve blearily looks up from the screen of his laptop – the blank word document, to be precise – and blinks owlishly at her.

After a moment, he asks in a croaky, disused voice, “Is this your way of saying get over it?”

She sighs theatrically and places her hands on her hips. “No, of course not,” she says, but it sounds so rehearsed that Steve knows she’s at the end of her week-and-a-half long patience. It is sort of a new record, her dealing with his moping for this long without even a hint of frustration. Until now.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the expression,‘ _If you love something, set it free?_ ’”

Steve snorts. “I don’t believe that. Most of what’s worth having, you have to fight for.”

“Right,” she drawls. “But _you_ didn’t let Bucky go, so listen; ‘ _If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was_.’ That’s on his end. So while he’s waiting around, you go do what you always do. You go fight for it.”

Steve closes his eyes. It’s not that simple, is it?

“I know,” she breathes, much softer now. It’s no surprise that she knows what he’s thinking. She takes a seat at the table across from him, reaching out her hands to grab his. “This is different, isn’t it? You were pretty far gone on him. Still are.”

“Look, Sam already tried to talk to me about this yesterday.”

“I know,” she says again. “And I bet he mentioned how you came home bloody and upset because of Bucky, right? That he was a danger to you?”

“Yeah?” Steve answers, but it comes out more like a question of his own. He doesn’t know what she’s getting at, but experience says it’s best to wait it out instead of trying to rush her.

“But I bet he never called it a destructive relationship, did he? Because Sam knows that’s not quite true.” Peggy stands and moves from one chair to another, putting herself closer to Steve and never letting go of his hand. “Steve, what you have with Bucky is… unorthodox, but it’s also special. You’ve always had your reasons and you like Bucky so very much, you must have a good one. So instead of telling you to forget about him, I find myself madly suggesting you try and speak with him.”

As much as Steve would like to do exactly that, he can’t get over his anger and his partially unfounded feelings of betrayal.

“He doesn’t wanna talk to me, Peggy,” he admits bitterly, shutting the lid of his laptop more harshly than he should. “I tried calling, texting. He won’t answer.”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “I suppose you’ve sent handwritten letters, too? Go visit him!”

“Natasha and Dum Dum said that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

She laughs at him and squeezes his hand a little tighter. “When have you ever listened to reason? Don’t start now, when your stubborn idiocy matters most. I know you’re in love with him.”

Steve’s not surprised. He wasn’t exactly trying to hide his feelings. He just wishes he could’ve told Bucky before it all went to shit so that maybe he’d rethink cutting ties and try to actually work things out together. This whole ‘giving you up to protect you’ thing is nice and all in theory, but it’s also kind of insulting and incredibly stupid and Steve hates it.

“And if he doesn’t feel the same, or if it’s not enough to change his mind about this – and for the record, I think trying to protect you is smart and right – then at least you’ll get some closure. You deserve it.”

Steve finds himself nodding along to her words, believing them more than anything he has these last few days. He won’t let this go.

Peggy pats his hand, offering a smile when he refocuses on her knowing expression. “But if you’re going, I strongly suggest you carry your glock. Put our minds at ease for once.”

Steve puffs up slightly, bothered by the fact that he even might need a weapon while going to visit Bucky. He doesn’t want to take the gun his father gave him two birthday’s ago, the one he hasn’t touched since a handful of sessions at the shooting range, but he figures it’s better to be safe than sorry. And Bucky might be softer when he realizes that Steve is actively trying to protect himself.

The handgun gets taken from the closet and stuffed into the back of his pants after double checking the safety and he finds himself laughing at how strange carrying a gun feels. Bucky had been right when he’d said Steve wouldn’t make a good cop, isn’t cut out for it. Hell, he’s not cut out for criminalistics either. But he can only fix one problem at a time and trying to make Bucky see reason – Steve’s version, anyway – is what’s important right now.

 

Something in Steve’s gut tells him not to park anywhere near the building, so he doesn’t, parks a block over instead. Something in Steve’s gut also tells him that maybe this isn’t such a good idea; the area looks empty, gray and dead. He ignores his instincts this time and trudges through the rain to rap his knuckles against the front door until his thin skin cracks and turns red with blood.

He hears heavy footfalls seconds before the door creaks open to reveal squinty eyes. There’s also a bowler hat and a bushy mustache and if it weren’t for those identifiers, Steve wouldn’t be able to see whoever was on the other side because of the lack of lighting in the foyer.

“Steve,” Dum Dum greets. There’s warmth to it even though he doesn’t open the door any farther.

“I need to see Bucky.”

“Steve, come on, you know –”

“I need to see him,” Steve stresses. “I just gotta talk to him, okay? Is he here?”

Steve can hardly see the way Dum Dum purses his lips from underneath the mustache.

“You’re gonna catch your death out there, kid. You better get home.”

Steve clenches his jaw and takes a step back, steeling himself to lunge forward and barrel his way inside, knocking Dum Dum off balance and flinging the door slamming against the wall.

“Bucky!” Steve yells, racing towards the stairs and stomping up them, paying no mind to what all this exertion could do to his lungs.

“Flighty little bastard,” he hears Dum Dum growl from the bottom of the steps, but he doesn’t get followed.

“Bucky, get your dumb ass out here right now and talk to me!”

People grumble at his shouting, some even going as far to stick their heads out the doors and glare. It doesn’t faze Steve that he’s storming through the home of a bunch of Mafia members.

“ _James Buchanan Barnes_ –”

He’s stopped short by a taller body blocking his path, hair mussed and face scrunched and arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“For fuck’s sake, Steve! You’re gonna get yourself beat to hell if you keep this up.”

Steve huffs and yanks out his gun to show Bucky, who’s eyes go wide.

“I came prepared.”

“Yeah, okay. Put it away, boy scout.” He waits until Steve situates the gun underneath his shirt before continuing. “Look, there’s a reason I don’t call you back. You can’t be here.”

“I can,” Steve bites out. “You just don’t want me here.”

“No, that’s not –” Bucky starts, but then he immediately freezes. “You’re right, I don’t,” he tries, but Steve rolls his eyes and shoves Bucky with just enough force to back him against the wall with a thud.

“If I’d done something to hurt you or upset you or whatever, you’d have every right to drop me, but you’re only doing this because you think you have to and that’s bullshit.”

“It’s my fault, okay? I’ll take that. But I knew from the beginning what getting involved with you could mean and I did it anyway. I got crazy for you and put you at risk and it was wrong, so I’m fixing it. For once, I’m doing what’s right.”

Steve wants to scream.

“It’s not _right_ , Buck, _it’s_ easy!”

He reaches out and shoves at Bucky’s chest again, curling his fingers in the fabric of his t-shirt. His smaller body is really starting to feel the chill from his wet clothes, but all he can do is grit his teeth and ignore it.

Bucky’s voice cracks when he asks, “You think this is easy? Fuck you!”

“No, fuck _you_! Fuck you for thinking you’re the only one who has a say!”

A door opens nearby and an accented voice angrily tells them to shut up. Steve turns with his mouth wide open, fully intent on telling them to fuck off, too, when he feels arms wrapping around his waist. And then his body’s being lifted over Bucky’s shoulder and he’s being hauled back down the stairs with hurried steps.

“Bucky!” Steve all but screeches. It doesn’t do anything for him.

He notices Dum Dum standing in the corner, smoking near the cracked door because it’s raining too hard to stand outside. He raises his brows at the two of them and puffs on his cigarette, blowing the smoke off to the side so as not to bother Steve when Bucky sets him upright only a few feet away.

And because his temper is at nearly full capacity right now, Steve, without thinking, reels his arm back and punches Bucky in the jaw.

“дерьмо,” Bucky hisses, rubbing at the spot that Steve knows will probably bruise. He’s too upset to feel bad for it.

The collar of Steve’s shirt gets grasped and before he knows it he’s being manhandled yet again, dragged to the door that Bucky kicks the rest of the way open.

“Go home, Steve. Please.”

“If you shut this door in my face, I swear to God, Bucky, I will stand here until you open it again.”

Bucky groans high in his throat and gives Steve a shake. “You’re gonna get sick, you fucking punk. See, this is what I’m talkin’ about. You can’t just –”

Bucky stops abruptly. Steve notices the way his tired eyes turn sharp, taking in something going on in the distance. When he tries to turn for a look, he’s grabbed roughly by the shoulders and pulled into Bucky’s chest.

They spin around; changing places just as bullets begin to fly, making Bucky’s back a shield for Steve for the few precious seconds it takes them to shuffle inside and drop to the floor. Steve winces when he hits the ground, grunts when all of Bucky’s weight falls atop him as he rolls them away from the entry so Dum Dum can slam the door for safety.

He’s sure that it’s not just his heartbeat that’s pounding against his ribs, but also Bucky’s that’s thrumming through him. Bucky’s face above Steve’s is so close that he practically goes cross-eyed trying to see, but he can still make out the paleness of skin and nervous bobbing of a throat.

“Buck,” he wheezes, anger now replaced with fear and mild confusion.

Bucky’s climbing off him before he can process everything, moving as fast as he can while staying crouched. Steve turns his head to see Dum Dum ripping up the floorboards in the closet to retrieve an armful of guns, two of which he hands to Bucky. Steve vaguely recognizes one as a SIG Sauer pistol, but all he knows of the other is that it’s an SMG.

“Steve, go up. Yell for Nat. Go!”

He doesn’t argue this time, just gets to his feet and trips up the stairs. He can hear Dum Dum arguing for Bucky to follow and then moments later he feels fingers encircle his wrist to lead him the rest of the way up.

“Natasha!” Steve shouts in between Bucky’s yells for something that sounds like _yestreb_.

Natasha and Barton come flying down the hall, Coulson and another woman on their heels. They’re armed and ready for anything.

Barton hands Bucky yet another gun, a sniper rifle this time.

“Fury’s office,” Barton instructs. Bucky nods and then shares a look with Natasha before pushing past the group with Steve to finish the climb up to the top of the building.

It’s quiet behind the heavy door, but Steve can still hear the sound of gunfire through the rickety window. It worries him that the echoes are getting quieter because he knows that means the enemy is infiltrating Bucky’s home, ready to kill him and all his friends, his family.

Steve watches Bucky run to the window and force it open, savagely ripping the screen out and letting it fall to the sidewalk far below. He positions the gun, though he hesitates to peer through the scope, choosing to glance back at Steve instead.

“Get in the closet. Keep hidden,” he orders. When Steve makes to argue, Bucky pleads with him to stop and listen. It goes against every fiber of his being to hide himself away while people are laying down their lives just floors below, but Bucky looks so scared that Steve forces himself to do as he asks.

The door is left open a few inches. Steve draws his gun and holds it pointed down at his side, and takes a moment to just breathe. His heart stutters every time he hears a shot coming from inside the room, his imagination getting the best of him and insisting that it’s Bucky getting shot instead of him doing the shooting.

He knows the police must have been called at this point and that they’re probably on their way, but who’s going to get hurt before they get there? And how many have already been downed? Steve’s not stupid; he can only guess that the people stomping up the stairs are the group he’s heard of as Hydra.

It’s minutes of restless waiting, of listening and forcing out held breaths. He’s got a gun in a mostly steady hand and it feels like he’s about to go to war. Distantly, his brain makes a note to ask Sam if he’s _sure_ about wanting to be a Pararescue.

Steve is ripped out of his thoughts when he hears a sudden cut-off sound from Bucky, followed by several thuds and a gunshot that’s closer than the others. The only reason he doesn’t burst out of the closet right away is because he can hear Bucky cursing up a storm. What he sees when he peeks through the crack is Bucky and another dark haired man trading blows.

He punches his adversary with his left hand and pulls a knife from underneath his shirt with the other, spinning it fluidly and then jamming it forward to slip into a raised arm. He goes to pull it back out, Steve can see, but gets kicked back and tackled to the floor. It takes a second, _one second_ , for Steve to witness hands gripping Bucky’s throat and then Steve’s shoving the door open with his elbow and holding the gun out with his right hand.

He doesn’t miss when he fires.

Bucky is still underneath the slumped body for three whole seconds. Then he pushes it off and sits up, dazed. Steve can see the tiny speckles of blood on his face, more of it smeared on his hands and staining his shirt. None of it, save for the leaking cut at the corner of his mouth, is his.

“I…” Bucky swallows. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

Steve’s head barely moves when he goes to shake it. “Don’t be stupid,” he says.

And he means it just as much as Bucky meant his apology, but he can’t clear the thickness from his throat. He just killed a man. Shot him dead.

Steve takes a deep breath. “What was his name?”

“Rumlow.”

He nods, accepting the burden of that death. Maybe he’ll pray about it, but not now.

Bucky leaves the sniper rifle near the window and leads them out of the room carefully.  He’s back down to two guns while Steve has his one and together they make their way to the stairs, descending slow and cautiously. Most of the chaos has seemingly died down, but there are faint sounds from down below, probably outside as well, so their next objective, Steve can only assume, is to meet up with one of the other Bratva members.

By chance, Steve notices Barton hanging from a hallway chandelier and grabs Bucky by the hand to stop him. He almost smiles when Bucky laces their fingers on instinct, probably thinking that the action was just for comfort. He gives their twined hands a squeeze and then points up to Barton, getting him to drop down once Bucky looks towards the lights.

“What’re you guys doing out here?” Barton asks.

“What were you doing up _there_?” Bucky counters.

Barton snorts. “You wouldn’t think so, but it’s a good vantage point.”

“Rumlow ambushed me,” Bucky says then. “Must’ve scaled the building or something, came in through the vent.”

Barton looks upset by that information, grumbles out, “I taught him that,” before sighing. Steve can see that his gaze lingers on the blood smeared across Bucky. “Well, you’re here and he’s not, so thank Christ for that.”

“Yeah, well thank Steve, too.”

Barton doesn’t outwardly say that he’s impressed, but his expression says enough. He gives Steve a short nod, as if actually thanking him for protecting his friend. Steve nods back and grips Bucky’s hand a little tighter.

Bucky looks down at Steve with too many emotions to sort out, turning to face Barton after several seconds, his shoulders sagging with the weight of their world.

“I gotta find Nat and Dum Dum. Can the two of you stick together?”

Steve doesn’t add to Barton’s agreement. He keeps himself from arguing and hopes that Bucky can feel his silent pleas to be safe.

They watch him go, the SMG in hand, and don’t move until he’s disappeared down the stairs. Then Barton leads Steve over to a door near the bannister, a recurve bow, of all things, at the ready, and asks, “You got my back?”

Steve doesn’t hesitate to say _yeah_ and pull his gun up into position. He appreciates the trust he’s being shown.

They get into the room with only one arrow being shot at a guy that jumps out at them, but Barton then retrieves it and they push themselves against the wall behind the door in case someone else decides to pay them an unwelcome visit.

They don’t talk and they don’t move for nearly ten minutes, not until they hear a throaty, pained scream that they both instantly recognize as belonging to Bucky.

Steve runs out into the hallway as fast as he can, making a beeline for the staircase with Barton coming up beside him. He hops down three, stumbles over two, then hops three more again until he’s able to turn and glance down the hall he swore the yells and gunfire was coming from. He stops in his tracks, getting his shoulder rammed by Barton, and watches Bucky shoot his pistol, laying two into a swaying chest and one more to the head before the guy falls lifelessly to the creaking wood.

Bucky drops the gun and turns, slipping in a puddle of blood. He balances himself long enough to sprint towards a body mere feet away, then drops to his knees and reaches out shakily.

It’s Dum Dum he’s leaning over.

Steve sighs, sad and heavy, and walks slowly over, ignoring the faint sounds of struggling somewhere not far off. He stops as soon as he’s able to see Dum Dum’s face, not wanting to clutter Bucky’s space any further. It sounds as if they’re both having trouble breathing.

“You dumb fuck!”

“Don’t know why you’re surprised,” Dum Dum grunts. “What’ve you been callin’ me the past decade?”

“You –” Bucky can’t continue.

“S’what I’m here for,” Dum Dum breathes. “Keepin your ass safe. Told you… told you ‘bout that bad luck. One of us was gonna have to take the hit for it to clear. Glad it was me.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t be sore.” He’s coughing now, the four hands on his stomach not doing much to help him. “Just get out. Get outta this like you’ve been talkin’…”

“Dum Dum,” Bucky murmurs. “ _Tim_.”

Steve can feel the strain in his throat, the prickling of his eyes. He can’t see Bucky’s face, but he can imagine how it looks. He won’t be able to hide this level of heartache.

“There’re cops outside,” Bucky tries to reason. “We’ll get you help. You’ll be right as rain.”

“It’s a fucking standoff out there. Nah, you take Steve and get. I’ve got no problems with where I’m goin.”

“No, we can –”

“Brother,” Dum Dum interrupts. Steve can see him grip Bucky’s wrists. “It’s alright. Lemme die in peace, will you?”

Bucky relieves the pressure on Dum Dum’s chest slowly. Then he’s standing and backing up towards Steve, watching the shallow rise and fall of his friend’s chest with glistening eyes. Steve grabs at his shoulders and turns, pulling Bucky’s torso against his to keep him from having to see the final breath that comes only seconds later. Steve shuts his eyes after that and focuses on giving Bucky a safe place to grieve, even if only for a moment.

And the moment feels like hours, but it’s only seconds before they’re interrupted by a frantic shout of “ _James!_ ”

Natasha’s running forward, relief etched across her bruised features, stumbling in her steps when she sees Dum Dum lying dead on the ground. She swallows and picks up the pace again, not stopping until she’s close enough to touch Bucky’s face.

“Zola’s here,” she whispers. “He got Coulson.”

If there was a switch inside Bucky, it would get flipped now. And it does.

He follows Natasha without a word, not saying anything about Barton and Steve trailing behind. He’s lost two friends because of Hydra, nearly lost himself because of Zola, and Steve can tell that this is it for him. Bucky will face him or die trying. There’s no more fear.

They stop on the fourth floor. The group of people clustered by a door parts when Bucky approaches and it isn’t long before Steve spies a piggy looking man being yanked away and hauled down the stairs once more very roughly. Steve, Natasha, and Barton track Bucky down to the basement, but none of them dare to move past the closed door.

There’s only one scream he hears and it isn’t Bucky’s. Whatever he’s doing to Zola, it’s painful and frightening and it makes Steve slump to the floor with his head in his hands. But he doesn’t leave. He wouldn’t ever leave.

There’s still gunfire outside, between the police and stray Hydra members and probably some of the Bratva, too, but all Steve can focus on are the sounds on the other side of the door.

“I’m sure he told you about what happened,” Natasha says, quiet and hoarse as she sets herself down on the floor beside him. Steve nods, giving her the go-ahead to continue. “He toyed with him. Cutting, burning, drowning. Forced him into a drug addiction he had a hard time kicking. But I think what really messed him up was the scarring.”

The scarring. Steve had seen some of that, on the chest and shoulder, the raised skin that still looked as if it could be painful. He’d never asked about it, but he’s wondered.

“He had to have surgery on his arm to get it functioning properly again, after what Zola did to it, and both actions left a lot of scars. Looking at it made him sick, so he got it covered. Wanted it to look cybernetic. It’s an illusion to something new, something that’s still apart of him… but _not_.”

Steve thinks he can understand that.

“My point,” she continues, “is that I think he’d rather you see his arm than know that this –” she gestures to the door, “is what he’s capable of. That this is what he’s choosing to do.”

Steve’s decided how he feels then and he voices what he thinks.

“As far as I’m concerned, Bucky’s fighting for his freedom. That’s not wrong.”

He stares Natasha in the eye for a long while, neither of them even blinking. He feels as if this is a test and her nod means he’s passed.

“When he comes out, he’ll… Just give him this.” She hands Steve a slip of paper consisting of coordinates. “Drop him off there, or stay with him if you want.” _If you can_ , she doesn’t say. “I’ll be by in the morning.”

 

Bucky comes out by himself. There are no more sounds behind him. Steve says nothing.

 

The police find their way in just as everyone starts to leave. Bucky leads Steve out the back door, near the basement, and then lets himself be pulled down the block to Steve’s truck. Steve swears that, for an instant, before they round the corner, he locks eyes with his father. He thinks about what his father would say if he found out what Steve’s been doing; what he’s done today. It’s a fleeting thought.

/\/\/\/\/\

Zola’s dead eyes feel like a haunting and a benediction all at once. Then Bucky blinks and he no longer sees the man in his nightmares, but the man of his dreams. Steve is there, pale faced and furrow-browed, and he’s gripping Bucky arms.

Bucky blinks and he’s outside. He must be walking because everything is moving. He must be running because it’s all going so fast.

Bucky blinks and they’re in Steve’s trunk. And then they’re not.

He doesn’t recognize the tiny apartment they’ve deposited themselves into, but he doesn’t have to. All he needs to hear is that Natasha gave them the directions and Steve followed them without issue.

Steve’s talking to him, he knows that much; has a feeling the punk’s been talking the whole time, not even bothered that Bucky isn’t responding or listening. But he can hear him now and the nonsense spewing from Steve’s mouth makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

“So then I took the slingshot, my dad never even noticed, and started flinging rocks at all the bullies when I went back to the park the next day. I was pretty good, I think. Had a garbage can lid for protection ‘cause I couldn’t run, never would’ve anyway. I got in trouble eventually, but my mom made pie so I don’t think she minded too much.” Steve smiles, leans forward to hand Bucky a bottle of water he’d been holding. “You with me again?”

“Yeah,” Bucky rasps. “You were talkin’ about shooting kids with slingshots.”

Steve chuckles. Then he sighs. Bucky takes a long swig of water to give his mouth and throat some much needed relief.

Dum Dum is dead, so is Coulson. It’s hard to be happy that Natasha and Barton are safe when he’s lost in thoughts of death and destruction, when he’s lost in how he handled himself with Zola while Steve was right outside the door.

“I’m no better than he was,” Bucky finds himself whispering. Steve doesn’t have to ask who he’s talking about. “What I did to him…”

Brutal. Fast. Efficient. But it was still torture. The images are already set to give him nightmares.

“Sometimes we do things that make us not sleep so well at night. That’s just how it is. The people who matter most won’t fault you for that.”

Bucky looks at Steve, _really_ looks at him, and can’t believe the sincerity in his features. After everything, he’s still here, sitting beside him, not caring that he’s at his worst. He came back to set him straight, to fight for what they had. He just fucking killed a man, for fuck’s sake, and all for him.

God, what has he done? Nothing good, that’s for sure, and he doesn’t know if he can ever change. Steve deserves better. Now he’s got to convince him of that.

Bucky remembers Steve asking what made him join the Bratva. He needs to know the whole story now.

He takes a deep breath.

“We went to Coney Island a lot, me and my mom and dad, before Rebecca was born. I was real close with him. We did everything together and even with the new baby, that never changed. I was only 13 when he died.

“He was killed in a car accident. Becky was 3, so she doesn’t remember it, but I… it was hard for me. I needed my mom, but I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t there for me, was too selfish to realize how hard losing him hit her, too. She stayed in bed longer and longer every day, skipped breakfast and dinner, stopped giving Becky her baths, stopped helping me with homework. I was confused, y’know? I had to take care of myself and Becky and I was so _mad_ about everything…

“I found Natasha when I was 14. Her dad had just died, too, left the Bratva to Fury until she wanted to take over. She was 16 and eager and I’m pretty sure I fell in love with her. She amazed me and she was _there_ when no one else was, so I latched on. Started spending less and less time at home, stopped trying to help out my family ‘cause I felt like I had a new one. I got into doing jobs around the same time Nat and I changed our relationship, and then I moved out.” It’s right around this time that the tears begin to swell. “I said horrible things to her. Told her she was a crap mom and I never wanted to see her again. I didn’t say I hated her, but I might as well have, with the look on her face… They left a while later and I was stuck here, digging my own grave.

“Nat and I ended up breaking things off after a couple of years and moved onto other people. Tori, Diana, Max…” Steve tucks his chin to his chest at the mention of the guy who betrayed Bucky. “Everything was shit after Zola, but the Bratva stuck by me, and then it was back to business like usual. Until I met you.”

He wants to touch Steve so, so badly. He doesn’t know if he should.

“It’s not just pleasure of comfort or some stupid sense of normalcy, it’s _you_. Everything about you. You’re special to me and I don’t wanna lose you, but this life is – I can’t do it anymore. _I can’t,_ ” he babbles helplessly. “What am I supposed to do now? I can’t go back home, none of us can. And all I’m good at is surviving, but I can’t even do that right anymore, not without you, and I’m so fucked. I –”

Warm hands bracket his face, tilting his head up to stare at the shorter blond that’s now standing, towering above his seated and slumped form.

“We’ll figure it out, Buck. I swear.” Thumbs graze his cheeks, swipe his nose and press down on his parted lips. Blue eyes are warm and tender, and Bucky is drowning in them. “We’re gonna get through this,” he says lowly. “Together, okay?”

What can he say? He can’t be strong when Steve’s involved, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe he can let himself be weak once in a while. Maybe...

“Okay,” he breathes. A sniffle follows.

And Steve smiles at him, brighter and more breathtaking than the sun, and he feels himself falling all over again. It’s never ending, his love for Steve. His…

His love. _He loves Steve_. It’s not surprising.

But what _is_ surprising is the fact that the words don’t tumble out of his mouth, but out of Steve’s.

“I love you,” Steve tells him, honest and raw, like he knew they were on the same page at that exact moment and was brave enough to lay it all out. “I’m in love with you and I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m with you.”

Bucky stares at him rapturously, words caught in his throat and the only way to push them out is to give into the mighty need to press his lips to Steve’s. So he does.

Two weeks without it has made his craving tireless. Steve doesn’t mind; in fact, he’s as  enthusiastic as ever, and it helps shut all of Bucky’s thoughts off one by one until all that’s left is the feeling of his body pressed against Steve’s and the wild thumping of two hearts that have finally made it home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I've been doing lately, but it definitely hasn't been writing. That's probably why this feels choppy and rushed. Still, I hope you can find something to like about this installment.
> 
> A moment of silence for Dum Dum and Coulson. :(
> 
> IABKOP has one chapter left. Have you guys enjoyed this story? Your comments and kudos mean the world to me, so thank you all.
> 
> I should mention that I do have a next story idea, another au. It's one I've had for a while but haven't done much of anything with, so I'm hoping I can write it because I won't post until I finish it, if I post at all. I don't have many other ideas at the point. Oh, I've also been thinking about more movie au's, but we'll see. I should probably get back to canon stuff at some point... 
> 
> One final note for now: I've been listening to The Story by Brandi Carlile a lot lately (haven't heard that song in years!) and it just struck me how STUCKY it is. Seriously. Ugh. I need a video to it or something.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warm fingers press tenderly against the back of his hand. Pulling himself from the endless vortex of his thoughts, Bucky looks to Steve’s serene expression, holds onto those beautiful features for a long trickle of seconds, and then darts his gaze down to the half-balled hand against his. When Steve’s sure he’s got Bucky’s attention, he unclasps his fist like a flower in bloom, revealing his palm and yet another nickel-silver key.
> 
> “Three’s more complete,” he insists when Bucky continues to stare, though he doesn’t waver under the brunt of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "As time passes, things change every day  
> But wounds, wounds heal  
> but scars still remain the same  
> But tomorrow, today's goin' down in flames  
> throw the match, set the past ablaze  
> So feel the fire beneath your feet  
> as you barely even perspire from the heat  
> exhale deep and breathe a sigh of relief  
> and as you say goodbye to the grief  
> it's like watching the walls melt in your prison cell  
> but you've extinguished this living hell  
> Still, a little piece of you dies and you scream  
> I'm standing in the flames  
> and it's a beautiful kind of pain  
> setting fire to yesterday  
> find a light, find a light, find a light"

He’s awake before Steve, who’s sleeping like the dead beside him, exhausted emotionally and physically beyond anything Bucky’s ever seen before. Bucky is, too; would still be sleeping with his limbs tangled alongside thin, bony ones, drooling on the pillow, if his body hadn’t been jolted awake by the sound of the door scraping open.

He _knows_ he should get up to check who’s come in rather than pressing his back to Steve’s in an attempt to act as a shield, but there hadn’t been any precursory sounds to the door opening, no banging or jiggling, so he figures someone must have a key. Someone like Natasha.

Bucky relaxes at the thought, lets his weight rest more heavily on the body half under him. Steve snuffles and stirs, waking just enough to reach blindly behind and tug Bucky closer like he would a blanket.

_I love you_ , he’d said. _I’m in love with you and I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m with you_.

He wonders how long it’ll last, Steve’s feelings for him, when he’ll learn and change his mind. Staring down at his punk’s sleep-lax face, Bucky selfishly hopes the answer is _never_.

The knock on the bedroom door barely makes a sound, but Bucky hears it in the silence. He takes a steadying breath before attempting to move off of Steve without waking him, though it happens anyway. Steve’s eyelids flutter, revealing a gaze that’s sharper than it should be so quickly, and Bucky tries to smile, _wants_ to smile when he’s looking at Steve, but it’s just not in him right now. So Steve doesn’t smile either – maybe he can’t yet – and simply reaches up to caress Bucky’s jaw, reverence in his doe-eyes, watching like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. Bucky imagines he’s been looking at Steve just the same.

The knock sounds again, far more insistent. He can’t keep Natasha waiting.

He slides out of the bed gracelessly and pads over to the door, opening it slowly in case it _isn’t_ Natasha, but there’s nothing to worry about because she’s there, green eyes meeting his through the crack. Behind her is Barton and, surprisingly, Maria.

“I’m glad you guys are okay,” he thinks to say, only slightly surprised by the hoarseness of his voice.

“Likewise,” Barton murmurs with an expression even more somber than usual.

A crease forms between Natasha’s brows as she asks, “Is Steve with you?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers swiftly, his tone suggesting the _of course_ that doesn’t follow. He appears by Bucky’s side and pushes the door open the rest of the way, allowing him to see the three standing outside it. Bucky sees the look Nat and Steve share, doesn’t miss the relief that relaxes her features and shines in her eyes.

“Fury’s headed to Europe, but I thought you’d like to know he got Pierce.”

“Shot him in the chest,” Barton adds. It doesn’t make Bucky feel as good as he once thought it would.

Natasha chews on her lip for a few quiet seconds, her eyes darting across Bucky’s tired features. She’s a little bruised up, but she’s got her brave face on and Bucky’s sure he knows what’s coming.

“Bratva’s disbanding.” The words make Bucky feel as if he’s been stabbed with glass, but Natasha’s voice sounds like she’s swallowed some. Her whole entire life has been about the Bratva – it has her namesake, it’s the last piece of her father, it’s her new family. And now it’s all ending. “Fury’s going to Europe and…”

It doesn’t happen often, but her eyes unquestioningly well with tears. Bucky, choking back his own blubbering, pulls her into a hug. He gets it, he really does. Natasha is going to follow Fury in an attempt to start anew and Bucky isn’t going with her, not this time. He could, if he wanted; she's whispering the offer in his ear right now, but she sounds as if she knows the answer.

“Clint’s coming with me. You can, too.”

“Well, besides you, there’d be nothin’ for me.” He sniffs, squeezes her arms tightly, and lets her go. “I wanna stay here, try my luck.” He’s reminded of Dum Dum and winces at his own words. “I wanna…”

There are so many things he wants, he just doesn’t know how to go about getting them, or if he should, if he’s worthy. He wants to stay in New York, move back to Brooklyn. He wants to gain the courage to call his mom and apologize. He wants to stop getting arrested so Steve’s family can like him…

He wants to be with Steve.

“I’m gonna stick around here. Find a place, find a job.” He looks to Steve, suddenly unsure of himself, but all that flies out the window when he sees the stare Steve’s leveled him with. It’s gentle and excited and _loving_. “Yeah,” he breathes, “I’m not gonna leave my best guy.” Not now. Not ever.

Natasha pretends to be exasperated so the focus shifts away from her emotional state, giving them an indulgent, crooked smile and a head shake. But it’s Maria who steps forward next, holding two sets of keys in the palm of her hand.

“I think I’ve got a job for you.”

The Hill’s Auto Shop keychain brings back old memories of youthful summers and naivety he wishes he could’ve kept longer. He tries valiantly to fight off a smile, but he can’t – not until he locks in on the other set.

The Commander’s key is still on the chain, next to the dangling eagle. He hadn’t touched it or the car since breaking things off with Steve and even more so now, he feels as if he should never lay a finger on it again. So Bucky yanks his hand back as if he’s been reaching for fire and shakes his head roughly.

He can’t say _no_ without snarling it and Maria doesn’t deserve that, pinched expression or not.

“He’d want you to have it,” Clint offers. Before Bucky can argue, he adds delicately, “It’s in writing, if you wanna see.”

No, he doesn’t want to see Coulson’s fucking _will_. He doesn’t want to have to deal with any of this mess, this loss and change and uncertainty, but trying to escape his problems by pretending they don’t exist or by sweeping them under the rug has never helped and it won’t do anything for him now. Bucky wants to stare at the floor, the wall – anywhere but at all the different faces, anywhere by the damn keys that will literally open the doors to his future now that people have paved his way with their lives – but nothing will work if he can’t be strong. And he _can_. Having Steve beside him, believing and supporting and fucking _devoted_ , if last night’s speech was any indicator – all of that gives Bucky strength.

His hand reaches out on its own accord, then pulls back and shoves forward again, fingers extending until they brush against the warmed metal of the keys. The Commander and the Auto Shop, brushing together as his fist closes over them. He’s light and weighted all at once, grounded during the aftershocks of the storm. The calm will come, but not until he can accept the sudden tilt of his life.

If he really thinks about it, though, it’s not so sudden. His life’s been shifting since the moment he met Steve, since he heard that stupid joke in the center of the police station and every second after; at the Lounge and Coney Island, the cozy apartment with Cap. The Bratva is disbanding and with it goes his friends, his make-shift family, but not his home, not his life.

“You’ll be okay,” Natasha whispers, like she knows he needs to hear it in this moment. And it’s a miracle that he believes her.

“You too.” He pulls her into another tight hug, then moves on to Barton and finally Hill. She clutches back with a tightness he’d never imagined coming from her. “This isn’t it, okay? You better come visit me sometime. And call when you can.”

Natasha promises him that they will before stepping forward to grip Steve’s shoulder’s and kiss his cheek. He offers her a soft lopsided smile and vows solemnly to take care of Bucky, which appeases her and warms his heart. Barton and Hill shake Steve’s hand and then turn to lead Natasha out the door. She gives them one last look before disappearing behind the wood with a nearly silent click.

He’s not having trouble breathing, even though his lungs feel constructed, but he wonders if Steve’s inhaler would do him any good if the realization of losing everyone but Steve breaks him out into a sweaty panic in the coming days. Nick Fury is voluntarily leaving and not choosing anyone to step up, which is unheard of in the Romanov Bratva. There’s always been someone and if Fury was leaving, Natasha would have to rise. But everything’s tumbling down and any traces of what they were only hours previously need to be scrubbed clean for a fresh start.

Warm fingers press tenderly against the back of his hand. Pulling himself from the endless vortex of his thoughts, Bucky looks to Steve’s serene expression, holds onto those beautiful features for a long trickle of seconds, and then darts his gaze down to the half-balled hand against his. When Steve’s sure he’s got Bucky’s attention, he unclasps his fist like a flower in bloom, revealing his palm and yet another nickel-silver key.

“Three’s more complete,” he insists when Bucky continues to stare, though he doesn’t waver under the brunt of it.

Bucky licks his lips and drives his gaze up Steve’s taught, bare forearm, up the rolled sleeves atop his biceps and bony shoulders to land on the strong, upturned chin and then farther up to crystalline eyes framed by thick brows and long lashes.

“It feels like charity,” he manages to grit out, though he’s not quite sure how. He’s stubborn enough to want to refuse but selfish enough not to.

“Trust me, it’s not,” Steve assures. And he wouldn’t lie about this, about anything where Bucky is involved, so he takes the key and marvels at the certainties he’s just been handed.

“Steve…” He’s not sure what to say. _Thank you_ isn’t good enough, can’t properly convey the gratitude he feels. Only, it’s not just gratitude, and he could say those three words and mean them more than anything if they would get over the lump in his throat.

Steve smiles, sunny and sweet, and slips a hand into Bucky’s unkempt hair, artist fingers twisting in the short, soft mop of chestnut strands. The little, rough tug sets his heart aflutter and his mind on a fast-track to the gutter, the dry press of lips sending waves of heat to pool in the pit of his stomach. And god, Bucky could do this all day, kissing Steve until their lips were numb. He’d never move away if he didn’t have to, never stray from the wall he crowds Steve against or arch back farther than the inches needed to suck in gulps of air for panting. He’d cradle Steve’s head forever, hike those soft thighs up around his waist and lick between swollen lips to meet the hot slick of a wicked tongue.

He moans against milky skin, can’t help it when he ruts the hard line of his front against the hard line of Steve’s, scraping his teeth down to mouth at the scratchy, slack jaw.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve murmurs, rounding out that last syllable into a breathy hum.

Bucky moves his right hand away from Steve’s ass to pocket the keys hastily, then pushes his body higher up the wall by the force of his grip on the left and the thigh he’s using to rub against Steve’s groin. With his right hand once again free, he lands it in Steve’s tousled hair, uses it as a rein to pull him where he wants, which is with his head knocked back against the wall to expose the pale line of his throat.

“I had plans… breakfast, grab your things, get home –” Every little pause between Steve’s words is punctuated by a guttural keen when Bucky latches onto skin and grinds their hips.

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice cracks in his hunger. “You want me to stop?”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

Bucky puffs a laugh. Thumb and forefinger gripping his jutted chin, he turns Steve’s head to face him and presses their mouth together – once, twice, three times. Then, pitching his voice low, he teases into Steve’s ear, “You gonna help me work up an appetite?” He knows for certain, even without seeing, that Steve rolls his eyes, but the thing he feels, that shoots sparks down his spine and sends blood flow south, is the roll of slender hips into his own.

“Maybe if you ever get on with it,” Steve sasses.

“Don’t remember you being this impatient,” he grunts, hauling Steve away from the wall but never letting his feet hit the floor.

Steve snorts. “Then you’ve got a shit memory, Buck. Трахни меня, right?”

His body jolts. “Oh, the mouth on you…” He chuckles, depositing Steve onto the bed. “Tell me more.”

Steve’s got a playful gleam in his hooded eyes. “I’ll show you.” His throaty declaration echoes Bucky’s from months prior. He made good on that promise and now it’s Steve’s turn, apparently.

It feels like it’s been ages since he’s had Steve like this and now a dams been broken and he wants nothing more. He’s not trying to fuck away his grief, he just wants to feel _good_ , make Steve feel good, too. Nothing else has to matter for a while.

/\/\/\/\/\

Steve doesn’t check the messages on his phone until he’s thoroughly bruised and sated and grabbing bags of greasy breakfast from the drive-thru window to toss into Bucky’s lap. He manages to answer one of Sam’s many messages with _I’m fine, long story, call you soon_ , sending it to Peggy and Sharon and his mother as well because they’re all just as worried as Sam. However, he leaves his father’s text of _‘you better explain to me what’s going on’_ unanswered for the time being so he can focus on wolfing down a hash brown before he faces whoever’s still at the Romanov’s building.

He’s been sneaking peeks at Bucky all morning, trying to decipher the mood he’s in, if he needs space or a comforting touch. He knows Bucky’s demons, his pain and grief and anger, won’t dissolve over days or weeks or even months; that it’ll take time, but he’s in it for the long haul. Maybe he’s insane – he can hear both Sam _and_ Peggy, possibly even Sharon, telling him he is – but he’s counted Bucky as one of those lights that never go out and with the life he’s lived, where he’s had days without even a flicker in the darkness, he hopes  Bucky can understand that they’re in this together.

The park and eat, filling the silence of the truck with crinkling wrappers and soft talk of the near future. Other than clothing and various small items that can be boxed, he doesn’t have much in the way of possessions that need hauling to Steve’s. And even if he did, Steve gets the impression that he wouldn’t want to keep it around anyway, just constant reminders of that rapidly closing chapter in his life.

Bucky’s quiet until they pull up to his taped off building. Steve guesses there’s an investigation going on, but he knows it’ll drop in a few days, even without Pierce pulling strings. Things get worse before they get better and he can’t think of anything worse than the previous day’s happenings, so he prays that things are in line to look up.

So Bucky’s quiet until he sees the black-on-yellow DO NOT CROSS and the banged-up door beyond. That’s when he turns to look Steve in the eye and tell him, “I can’t do this.”

Steve more than understands. Unbuckling his seatbelt with one hand and reaching out to touch Bucky’s arm with the other, he says, “I’ll go up, get some of your clothes and whatever I think you might need, okay?” He drops his cell onto the console between them. “Text Sam, would you? He won’t leave us alone until he’s got some answers.”

Bucky stretches forward just to place a lingering, feather-light kiss against Steve’s lips. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, and it’s not as bright as this morning but he’s not hollow either, and Steve counts that as a victory.

Steve’s able to convince some suspicious officers to let him through, partially because they know his name but mostly because they know his reputation. He’ll argue until he gets what he needs and if that doesn’t work, he’ll find a way to sneak by anyway. And it might also be because they’d like to keep him on their good side.

Steve ducks under the tape and trudges up the stairs, looking around solemnly at the halls that somehow look so different than before. There’s still dried blood in some places, mud tracks in others. He keeps to himself and gets into Bucky’s room without much fuss and spends less than twenty minutes gathering whatever he deems necessary and stuffing it into duffels. His dad’s probably going to pull up with blaring sirens and angry tirades at any moment, so Steve rushes back out of the building with a tense shoulders and pounding feet before anyone can stop him.

Bucky’s still typing away on Steve’s phone when he hops back into the truck.

“Sam’s giving me the shovel talk,” Bucky muses. “He literally said, ‘this is our shovel talk.' He also threatened to sick Peggy on me twice and demanded we hang out next week.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Sam.” Steve shakes his head fondly, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. He tosses the two bags gently into the backseat, buckles up, and starts the car headed down the familiar, slush-filled roads that will lead them to Brooklyn.

Bucky hums and drops Steve’s phone in favor of looking out the window, seemingly focused on the flakes he can spot flitting down from the sky. Neither of them says anything for what feels like so long that he almost misses the barely-there whisper of his name.

“Steve. Don’t let me mess you up.”

He has half a mind to slam the breaks hard enough to send them peeling, but he doesn’t.

“Is that what Sam’s telling you?”

Bucky shakes his head, though he takes a moment to face Steve again.

He furrows his brow. “Are you sure?” he presses.

Bucky sighs. “He didn’t say anything, but he got me thinking… I just don’t wanna screw up, is all. Not anymore.”

“We all screw up, Bucky. But that’s okay. Sum of its parts, remember?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, smirking a little. “Now tell me one of your stupid jokes.”

Steve is all too happy to oblige.

\/\/\/\/\/

Bucky’s not sure how it happens, it might’ve started with a push or a playful remark, but he quickly finds himself being crowded against the door to Steve’s apartment before it even gets unlocked and yanked down for a less than innocent kiss.

It gets interrupted fairly quickly by a very pained hiss of, “ _Steven_.”

Bucky would know that gruff voice anywhere. So would Steve. They pull apart slowly, Steve leaning back more than Bucky’s able to, and both look up to meet the rigid figure of Sergeant Rogers.

“What the hell is going on here? What were you just doing?”

Bucky can’t help himself; he laughs in sort of a dry amusement, looking down and licking his lips when two sets of piercing gazes focus on him.

“Dad, this is –”

“I know who this is!” he snaps. “That little Romanov punk I’m always arresting.”

Bucky tears his sights from the floor to glare at Steve’s father.

“This is _Bucky_ ,” Steve corrects angrily. “He’s my boyfriend.”

It’s funny how he can get a thrill from that word even after Steve’s said _I love you_. It’s funny and sweet and it makes his defensive stance crumple. He reaches for Steve’s hand almost absently and Steve squeezes, gentle reminders that they’re both there to support each other.

Sergeant Rogers nearly chokes. “Your mother mentioned that you were – that you’d been seeing someone, but never in my wildest dreams did I think it’d be this weasel.”

“You don’t even know him –”

“I don’t _know_ him? He’s been down at my station more times than –”

“I honestly don’t care,” Steve replies, doing his best to stay calm. Bucky thinks he sounds more than a little fed-up. “I know that’s not what you wanna hear, but it’s true. I’m always honest, so please, for once believe me when I saw that I’m an adult and can make my own decisions.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to protect my only son! You’ve never had any self-preservation, you know that? If you want me to see you as an adult than you better act like one and get over this rebellious stage.”

“The day you see me as an adult is the day I stop being myself,” Steve says, all quiet danger and barely-contained emotion. “You’re never going to accept me or my choices and that’s – it’s not _okay_ , but I can live with it. And the thing is, I know you love me, and I love you, but I’m done. I’m done trying to be what you want, trying to make you proud, because it’s not happening no matter what I do.”

“I’m just concerned, Steve.”

Steve sniffs. From the corner of his eye, Bucky can see how red his nose is getting. He engulfs Steve’s hand with both of his own.

“S’not an excuse to be a dictator. Why do you think I moved out when I did? I wasn’t ready, but god, I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take you ordering me around like a soldier we both wished I could be.” He takes a deep breath. Instinctively, Bucky breathes with him. “A lot’s been going on, but I think I can sum it up by saying that I’ve never felt as good as I do when I’m with Bucky and I’m in love him.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re twenty-one years old!” Steve’s father shouts. It gets Steve’s temper flaring again.

“And you were twenty-three when you married mom, so –” He clamps down quickly on whatever was about to escape past his filter. Bucky guesses it was probably _fuck you_ or something equally as bad to say to your parent.

“You don’t know what love is and you don’t need someone like him around. You haven’t seen him out getting into trouble. You haven’t seen him spit in the face of an officer or laugh like being some punk kid is the best thing in the world.”

Joseph Rogers is looking at Bucky fiercely and he stares back alright, but he feels removed from the situation, like they aren’t talking about him. He feels detached from that life while his hands cover Steve’s and that’s the only thing keeping him from taking a daring step forward. That and the fact that Steve might beat him to it if he doesn’t hold them both near the door.

“You used to care,” Steve says quietly. “You don’t anymore, but you used to.”

Bucky remembers that conversation they had, when he told Steve the truth, when he told him he wasn’t cut out to be like his dad, that he’d be wasted if he tried. He didn’t think his words ( _“I’ve got a rapport with Sergeant Rogers. He’s a real jackass with people who are lower than him. People like me are nothin’ but scum. Cops don’t care.”_ ) had stuck with him all this time.

“I’ve got no sympathy for people who waste all their chances,” he says darkly.

Steve shakes his head. “You’ve got no sympathy for anyone who doesn’t do what you think they should! Bucky’s made mistakes, just like any of us. You’re not better than him because you’re on one side and he’s on the other. ”

Bucky’s starting to get the picture that Steve and his father are far too stubborn to quit anytime soon, so before either of them can say anymore, he takes it upon himself to speak up.

“Look – judge me all you want, just know that you’re wrong about a lot of it. I’ve screwed up, but I’ve _never_ tried to deny it and I’ve always done what I had to I’ve paid for it. Now, Steve’s helping me do right, because that’s what I _want_. So go ahead and say or think whatever makes you feel good, Sergeant Rogers. It doesn’t change a damn thing for anyone.”

Bucky pulls one hand away from Steve to shove in his pocket and finally retrieve the key, only now realizing he’s had it this whole time and could’ve escaped much earlier. But he’s proud to have said his piece and now he’s ready to just drop into bed with Cap curled around him until Steve can slide in, too.

Before he shuts the door, though, he has one last thing to say, so he does.

“He was there with me yesterday.” He swallows thickly. “It was scary and dangerous and Steve saved my ass. So you better be proud of him ‘cause the kind of guy he is… You’ve got a special kid and I’m glad I know him. I’m sorry that bothers you.”

He picks up the bags he’d dropped in the hall and goes through the threshold, closing the door a little more than halfway to give Steve and his dad some privacy, and sets about feeding Cap more kibble for lunch.

“I’m sticking around for a while, mutt,” he tells Cap quietly, fondly, kneeling down so he can dig his fingers into the fine golden fur. “I feel bad about doing this, but you’re not gonna be able to sleep in the bed. See, ‘cause I _need_ to sleep next to Steve and the bed’s too small for all three of us. ‘Sides, you wouldn’t like it now. It’s just gonna be all tangled and sweaty and sticky –”

“Cover your ears, Cap,” Steve says suddenly as he comes into the room, swinging the door shut behind him. Bucky grins when he notices Steve’s softer demeanor.

“I was keeping it PG.”

“Right.”

Bucky steps closer, fiddles with the keys in his pocket. “So…” he trails, eyeing Steve carefully, absorbing the mix of hard and delicate lines of Steve’s beauty.

“He thinks it took guts for us to speak up like that. And he sends his condolences for the people you lost yesterday. But it’s gonna take a while for him to even consider accepting what I wanna do with my life, especially now that I told him about going to art school…”

“Wait – You’re actually doing that?” When Steve nods with an almost shy smile playing his lips, Bucky laughs delightedly and surges forward into a tight, warm press of bodies.

Steve buries his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck. “Yeah,” he says. “I figured, you’re not the only one who should have to go through all this change. We can be scared idiots making their way in the world together.”

“That –” he starts to choke. And dammit, of all the things to make him cry… “I'm with you, there. I’m with you to the end of the line.”

Steve whispers it back like it’s an oath he’ll never break. Bucky smiles into Steve’s hair and tells himself that if he was meant for anything in this life, it’s this right here and he won’t ever let it go.

/\/\/\/\/\

**[JANUARY – ONE YEAR LATER]**

It’s not the New Year’s hoots and hollers from Sam and Peggy and Sharon that break up the slow caressing of their mouths, but rather Steve’s phone’s loud ringing and irritating vibration between their bodies. They pull away with a wet sound and Steve works to catch his breath so he can answer the phone properly.

“Mom?” Bucky stops himself from laughing, but just barely. “Is everything okay?” He can’t hear whatever she's saying to he son, but it certainly gets Steve’s brows pulling inward.  
“You’re calling me at midnight to ask if me and Bucky are coming to dinner? Are you drunk?” Bucky does laugh, this time; especially when Steve’s amused features turn sour. “I didn’t need to know that about you and dad, but thanks. – No, you can talk to Bucky when we come over.”

“Hi, Sarah!” Bucky yells into Steve’s ear. He gets shoved off the couch in return.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell him. And I’ll see you later. – Love you, too, mom. Happy New Year.”

Bucky crawls back onto the couch to drape himself over Steve, smirking contentedly when arms wrap around him instantaneously.

“Tell me what?” he breathes into the skin of Steve’s neck, ignoring all the background noise – Cap barking, the singing from the TV, Sam and Peggy bickering while Sharon slams around in the kitchen – so he can shower his best guy with every ounce of his attention.

Steve hums, arching into the brush of Bucky’s fingers against his narrow hips.

“She wants to see your new tattoo.”

Bucky’s open-mouthed smirk gets latched onto the underside of Steve’s jaw. “It came out pretty good, didn’t it? Exactly like you drew.”

“Lemme see it again,” demands Steve, so Bucky pulls the thin t-shirt over his head and drops it to the floor, shivering when one of Steve’s hands crawls up the ink on his left arm while the other traces the circle pattern over his heart.

He’d asked Steve to draw him something simple that would represent him more than a name or words. He’d been a little reluctant at first, unsure of whether or not Bucky should mark himself with a reminder of Steve, but Bucky’d insisted. If he was going to live with the Bratva tattoos and the sleeve that covered his scars, then he definitely wanted something of Steve’s etched onto his body. So Steve, the little shit, sketched circles within circles with a star in the middle, coloring the whole thing a very patriotic red, white, and blue. And because Bucky could tell that Steve was actually _fond_ of the design, when he explained that it was a shield and that he thought it’d be a way to show Bucky that he’d always protect him, always be there to defend him and keep him safe, Bucky was quick to get the little picture transferred onto his body, colors and all.

He loves it as much as Steve does.

He has a lot of people to thank for where he’s at now, namely Steve and Sarah and Sam, the latter of which has warmed up to him significantly. Peggy and Sharon are good at whipping him into shape, too. But most surprisingly of all is that Steve’s dad has proven to be a solid beam of support. He’s not all open arms and smiles, of course, not with his hesitancy to accept Bucky and his relationship with Steve, but he at least cares enough to help in small ways; with business at the shop, with the number of an old councilor friend, with letting him come over with Steve for the holidays. Pair that with Natasha and Barton’s upcoming visit and Bucky’s inclined to think he actually has a real, wholesome family again.

“I’ve got an idea,” Steve says suddenly. Bucky quirks a brow and turns his head farther into the hand that’s petting his hair.

“Yeah?”

His intrigue gets Steve snorting. “Not like that,” he mumbles, bopping Bucky on the nose. “I was just thinking, y’know… It’s a new year. Why don’t you give your mom a call?”

It’s not an idea he hasn’t had repeatedly over these last few months, what with everything slotting together so well. He’s still been sending money to Becky, but it’s just not enough and he wants _more_. It’s been so long since he’s heard his mother’s voice…

Bucky latches onto Steve, pressing his cheek into the sternum beneath him as he admits, “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“You could start with _hello_ , maybe graduate to _I’m sorry_ or _I miss you_ ,” he suggests.

He could do that. He could do it right now, in fact. If she’s sleeping, he’ll just leave a message. He’ll leave a message and hope she calls him back and he’ll –

Bucky’s sitting himself up and reaching for the phone on the coffee table before he realizes what he’s doing. Briefly, he catches the proud upturn of Steve’s lips that makes his heart swell like the fucking Grinch.

“I love you,” he tells Steve on a whim, just because he can. He never gets tired of it. Neither does Steve, who rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder and whispers it back. That’s the final push into dialing the latest number Rebecca gave him.

The drawn out ringing on the other end makes him quiver a little, though he doesn’t quite get short of breath. He waits and waits, each second a battle against hanging up.

And then someone’s there. “Hello?” they question softly. Just like that, Bucky’s world pauses.

“Mom?” He sounds so small to his own ears, like a gust of wind might come through the window and carry him away. But he’s got his anchor at his side, ghosting a thumb across the nape of his neck. “Mom, it’s –”

“ _James_?” The line crackles with her frantic energy. “James, is that – Are you alright? Bucky, honey –”

“It’s me. It’s me. I – I –” _Breathe_ , he reminds himself. “Becky always gives me your number and I thought I’d… I miss you.”

Her response is immediate and laced with emotion.

“ _Bucky,_ I miss you, too. Oh,god, it’s so good to hear from you. I missed you so much, me and Becky and Luke. Please, please tell me how you’ve been. Talk to me.”

“I’ve been pretty good, lately.” His eyes dart over to Steve as he speaks, a smile curving his lips. “A lot’s changed and I thought – maybe we could catch up?”

“I’d really love that,” she whispers.

Bucky takes a deep breath, presses his back into the couch while his arm swings around Steve’s shoulders, and with the noises from the apartment finally having quieted down, he settles himself into telling her everything’s that’s happened while they’ve been apart. And like any good story, he begins with Steve.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so much longer than it should've. I've been caught up in NOT writing, but also writing bits and pieces for other things that may or may not pan out. But here this is, the last chapter of IABKOP. It ended faster than I wanted it to, but I so no way of making it last. This felt like a good place to end it, though I'm kind of displeased that it's 9 chapters instead of 10, haha. Maybe I'll go back and add another one day. Won't rule it out!
> 
> So, I want to thank you guys for giving this fic a chance. I hope you've enjoyed it because I've had fun writing the characters in this way. I know I should go back and edit it, just like I should with all my stories, but sometimes I can't bring myself to look over my writing over and over again. Anyway, thank you for reading, leaving kudos, commenting -- anything. It means so much to me. I hope you're satisfied with this last chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts! (Side note: this is one story where I really tried to flesh out their backgrounds beforehand and I think barely any of it, aside from Bucky's past, actually made it in, haha.)
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> (First off: the idea of thug!Bucky was inspired by [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2153814/chapters/4707264) amazing story by SkyeisGray and BarqueBatch. Read it if you haven't. It's amazing.)
> 
> I have no clue why I'm writing this. It's weird and different and I just want to keep at it, so I will. I hope you enjoy it in any way you can.
> 
> I have a lot of notes on this story, which I'm barely even halfway into, so this isn't the time or place to put them. I will just say that having them drop into each other's lives by way of telling stupid jokes was an idea that would not leave me and this story is a product of that. I need help, obviously.
> 
> Title/other inspiration comes from: Beautiful Pain // Eminem ft. Sia  
> Other-other inspiration (though not really, I just rewatch it a lot in between writing this): Criminal Minds.
> 
> I should mention that I've never been to New York and I have no knowledge of the Russian language or the mafia or police in any capacity. Apologies in advance for everything I get wrong. Plus this is an AU and these characters are really hard to get right in this setting, so I apologize for my inability to characterize, too.


End file.
